Chapter 64: Rising Through the Ranks.

The clandestine, sanctioned debauchery costed me, my mother, and my twin brother an opportunity for a substantial breakfast. We were the only ones in the dining area aside from the Alpha Prime’s servants engrossed in cleaning up a recent mess, and they showed displeasure. The residuum of pabulum was cold and meager. Time was not in our favor either. Dad appeared five minutes after we sat down and masticated on our food, telling us the tournament is about to commence. We swiftly stuffed our faces with as much comestible as possible and chewed while catching up with him and the others.

The throng of society made me glad dad had special privileges of accessing secret entrances as a prominent individual and bypass the chockablock at the main entrance. Even with it, his perk of dedicated seats in the stadium came in handy as it was almost full. He, his biological scions, Æsignís, and Ingileif were awkwardly stoic. Róstran, who was clothed, was abnormal, behaving he was in the early stages of an illness though he claimed he was fine. Mom checked Róstran’s head for a fever, concluding his temperature was normal.

The announcer proclaimed who will fight who and which round they would be in. Round one was Kellam versus the Direfenri who could enter into a rage. The second round was Þjálfí against a Fenri who should’ve been eliminated in the preliminary stage. The third fight was against two random Direfenri with one being suspected for cheating. Dad shared the same sentiment as the majority of the crowd. Jærvmi against Íkamæn for the final fight had the bets for being today’s highlight, even garnering the Alpha Prime’s presence and entourage when the time came.

A few minutes went by before Kellam’s match began. The other Direfenri immediately charged at Kellam, who didn’t move at all. He had no reason to. I noticed he had the height advantage and more hulking his opponent. The longsword lunged at him, ending up separated from its wielder. The following punch didn’t faze him.

The match was a one-sided affair though Kellam’s response was like a giant holding a midget an arm’s length away while the midget kept throwing punches. Still, his opponent racked up points while he remained at zero for the first half of the fight. Dágfárik exaggerated his previous fight. No way it was that exciting. The boredom could entertain me better than this fight by murdering me, and the especial permission didn’t expand beyond the Alpha Prime’s pool.

I heard Manasína, Vakörr, and the members of the Church of the Red Wolf whoop, cheer, and holler for Kellam as the other Direfenri retreated to collect his weapon. They the treated fight as if he were Faer and his rival as Salföðgrí.People glared at them though they didn’t care. If the rumors were true, then I cogitated why she was a perfervid zealot to the iconoclastic denomination.

Kellam caught the sword between his hands. A symbol glowed on his fur, followed by a visceral, agonizing howl. His opponent was unarmed again, frantically shoving his hand in nearby snow.

I glanced at Dágfárik. “Did Kellam do that the last time?”

Dágfárik was stupefied. “That’s a first. When did he learn to do that? That has to disqualify him.” He looked at dad. “You have to know that technique.”

“I have a hunch, and Faer bless the opponent if I’m right,” dad responded ominously.

“You don’t think?” Hrafnir inquired

“What?” Rýnaki and Lárus asked in unison.

“Kellam may have connections to the Skarths in the Åkerlund Islands and knows the fighting style that involves runes,” dad replied. “That explains the legend of him being taller when he fights up close.”

“Runes? Like magic? He’s capable of magic?” Dágfárik catechized rapidly.

“Definitely not that,” Róstran answered meekly.

“Pseudo-magic at best,” dad answered. “Not on the same echelon as Fjöðvar.”

Mom snarled at the match. “Cheap shot, that bastard.”

The other Direfenri collapsed to the ground, holding his groin. Kellam scored another point. A burst of strength overrode the pain to his family jewels, and he rolled away from Kellam’s grasp after kicking him in the face. His barbaric rage was on, and Kellam ceded territory.

“What gives?” Dágfárik snarled. “What’s the point of showing off more of his capabilities if he’s back to playing only defensive?”

“Not every fight has to be packed with action,” dad responded.

“No side wins a prolonged war. You taught us that.”

“And being impulsive leads to wasted lives and resources. The military instructors will drill into your head eventually that war is 90% mental and strategic and %10 kinetic.” Dad sighed.”As much as I hate giving Kellam credit, he’s intelligent enough to know that a barbarian’s rage opens up other opportunities to lose, and I suspect this isn’t his first time encountering such rage in a fight in his life. He’s waiting to exploit the one weakness to the rage.”

“And that is?”

Dad pointed to the arena. “Just watch.”

The rage ended, but the Direfenri had enough in him to activate it again despite being exhausted. Kellam was prepared and quickly pinned him to the ground. His arms struggled to push himself up and throw Kellam off. The burst of power lasted as long as ice in a sweltering heat wave. A debilitating wave crippled him, adding a second Kellam on his back. This simple act of imminent victory was insufficient for Kellam.

Kellam got ahold of the Direfenri’s arms and applied pressure. The Direfenri otiosely attempted to liberate himself. When that failed, his opponent frantically beseeched and capitulated. His response was inexorable and so swift that the adjudicator was unable to come to the rescue in time. I heard a sickening snap followed by a stentorian, visceral, agonizing howl. Satiated and victorious, he got off of him and left the arena. The loser needed help both in leaving the coliseum and medical attention. I beheld the Direfenri’s two arms as nothing more than wet noodles.

“Ruthless,” dad spoke. “Efficient and effective, but ruthless.”

“May Faer offer a speedy recovery for that Direfenri and personally escort Kellam to Þakúrötyðlý,” mom said cholerically.

The second round began with a rancorous audience and sonorous roar as Þjálfí made his appearance and waved. The husband looked their wives who screamed the loudest and were the most frenetic and horny.Some distracted their spouses by copulation. Dad looked at mom quizzically when she exuded less concupiscence compared to the feminine population.

Þjálfí carved a circle into the ground around him with his halberd and taunted the Fenri an expression and gesture. The Fenri’s nervousness and lack of confidence was painfully obvious that even a total abecedarian in combat would recognize and exploit the trait. No amount of feigning confidence could mask it as the opponent charged at Þjálfí, the blade trembling along the way. He struck him across the cheek with the blunt end, halting the assault.

The fight was different than the last time I watched Þjálfí compete. It was similar in that no one scored points, and he restrained himself, but the reason was disparate. Nothing screamed of a gaudery for the females. He kept thwacking the Fenri like he was a geriatric grandmaster and the Fenri was a young neophyte. He dodged his attacks without stepping out of the circle. Whatever plan he had for this fight better came with a contingency for a boisterous crowd. The boredom grew with each second that went by without a point on the board. People arrogated the belief he should end it swiftly and decisively since it was blatant the Fenri was outclassed. Some even resorted to taunting and jeering at his opponent to dissuade him with one even calling him a wolf, and dad reprimanded that individual.

Þjálfí paid no attention to the invective hurled at him and the Fenri. They sparred, and he gave him tips. To him, this round wasn’t about an easy victory. It was an opportunity to nurture confidence instead of quashing it.

“Þjálfí has keen eyes just like you, dad,” Hrafnir spoke. He was one of the bantam handful of people who shown genuine interest in the match.

“You’re right, Hrafnir,” dad replied. “I suspect the other Fenri is from Övulkæt.” He groaned lugubriously a tinge. “Another fine example of that region’s status before the restructuring.”

The other Fenri’s self-confidence aggrandized when he struck Þjálfí for real and drew blood, the first point in the whole round. The spar ended and the actual fight commenced, and Þjálfí’s opponent carried the confidence. No more timorousness. No more hesitation. They chained blow after strike on their weapons like they were fighting for their lives. The points ticked up on both sides. The audience transitioned from acrimonious to ebullient, believing the match was now worth watching.

Surprisingly, Þjálfí was on the losing side, which caused some people to murmur their doubts he could succeed. His injuries were above the other Fenri’s affliction by two, but his were more severe, teetering between manageable and debilitating or even lethal. The most concerning was the laceration behind his legs, making him limp. Both sides only had their bare fists, their weapons scattered on the ground. A few females vociferated cheers to assist him as their spouses filled their cunts with sausages and cream. He threw a punch to bring the gap down to one, needing three more points to win overall, but it had an unintended consequence. It activated the other Fenri’s rage, catching the crowd and even his rival himself by surprise. His fate was all but certain.

Þjálfí performed a maneuver that implied he had us played for fools after teaching his opponent. He exploited the one moment of over-cocksureness from him, picking the novice up and pile-drive into solid earth. The disorientation opened the moment for him to grab his halberd and return. They struggled on the floor. Bodies rolled around, their limbs intertwining into one entity, and the rage remained present and advantageous for his challenger. He was on the bottom with the other Fenri lying on top of him on his back. He took the long shaft and applied it to the Fenri’s throat, increasing pressure.

The other Fenri writhed around to break the strangulation. Panic and desperation became primary sources of his strength when his single use of rage dwindled to nothing in the futile attempt. Þjálfí held wrapped his legs around him and increased pressure, their genitals touching each other. The thrashing slowed to a stop. It appeared Þjálfí knocked him unconscious by strangulation. The referee confirmed it and declared Þjálfí the winner to the crowd’s delight and to the Church of the Red Wolf’s detestation, and Þjálfí flaunted his naked physique to be the females’ eye-candy.

I took the interregnum between halves to locate some victuals with Lárus and mom. We fought the chockablock that had similar intentions, and there was scarcity in restaurants in the coliseum. Mom heeded dad’s advice and found the recommended food vendor. The line took forever to move. Our stomachs did the ordering for us, which was the whole menu. We found a spot to sit, but she left me and Lárus alone to deliver food to the rest of the family and feed the pups. Lárus went to a nearby restroom, and Manasína arrived shortly after.

“How’s it going, Kaera? Enjoying the tournament so far?” Manasína inquired while sitting next to me. “Got any favorites?”

I was about to answer, but high-pitched, feminine shrills reverberated in the area. Þjálfí appeared with a cornucopia of a feast in his hands, and he peacocked for them. I pointed Manasína at him. “Him.”

She looked, turned around, and shivered. “Mine is Kellam.”

I paused just as my teeth touched a chunk of rib. “He exudes a minatory aura, and his congregation isn’t well-regarded either. Why him?”

“He has what it takes to steer this country in the right direction,” Manasína spoke with her mouth full of pabulums, the bits of them flying out of her mouth. She swallowed. “He has a vision of no one in poverty and a plan to achieve it, and it’s the least I can do for what his faith did for my family.”

“What happened?”

“Much like you, I lived in penury for the first few years. Övulkæt was known as the poorest region in the country, the boondocks of all boondocks, but my family’s conditions were even more impecunious and horrendous. Mom died shortly after my birth. Dad became addicted. My sister was my primary caretaker. Virtually no roof was over our heads for a whole day, and there were periods where we starved. We were laughing stocks, and I was treated with contumely when I was just capable enough to hold out and beseech for coins.” For once in my life I saw a tear form in Manasína’s left eye. I went to hug her, but she wiped it off and reverted to her cheerful, bodacious self. “Then a member of the Church of the Red Wolf lent a philanthropic hand and got us out of poverty. The congregation did a monumental overhaul of Övulkæt and boosted its standard of living tremendously. We are in amaranthine debt to them.” She took a drink. “Dad wanted Ingileif and I to not end up in squalor, and I have absolutely zero intentions of returning three. She fulfilled it by mating Rýnaki, and I am on my way with the Phenomenal Five as a stepping stone.”

I didn’t reveal my inflamed jealousy as Manasína licked her lips when Lárus appeared from the restroom. “How goes the Phenomenal Five?”

“Terrific. Unfortunately, you and I are aware that what goes on in the group stays in the group, but I have no contritions about accepting the offer. I should thank you for giving me the opportunity if it weren't for your trauma.”

Lárus stood in front of me and Manasína, looking pleasantly surprised at her presence. “Nice to see you, Manasína.”

“Pleasure’s all mine. Any word on Ásyvör?”

Lárus shook his head. “None that I know of. I’m hoping that incident blows over and everyone forgets when we return to Álfsandur.”

“I’ll be happy to lend a hand should you need it.”

Lárus was about to speak when we heard a sonorous sound of boos and jeers. “Sounds like the match is over and not in a way favorable to the crowd.” He looked at me next. “We should return. I want to watch Jærvmi’s fight.” He waved Manasína farewell. “See you later, Manasína, and thanks for the offer, but I believe it won’t be necessary.” He went to where mom and dad were.

Manasína reciprocated the gesture. “See you later, and no worries.” I was in the middle of standing up when she grabbed my left hand, whispering in my ear, “Meet me in the bathroom during the bacchanal tonight.”

I nodded. “Alright.” I reunited with my brother.

The ambulation to our seats was a battle with the crowd, and we encountered a mess when we arrived. “We’re back,” Lárus spoke, shuffling to his seat. “I take it the alleged cheater won.”

“Yes, and people are calling foul. Me included,” dad answered, making room for me and Lárus and getting his face full of our naked posteriors.

“What did he do?”

“It appeared he was under the influence of a potion- or potions- and he deliberately targeted his opponent’s penis and testicles with weapons.”

I looked at the referee in the arena after sitting in my spot. “Why didn’t the ref intervene?”

“That’s what I asked,” mom concurred exasperatedly. Her hand gestures matched her voice.

“I’ll look into it,” dad enunciated. “Some money-exchange must’ve occurred.”

“You have the jurisdiction?” Lárus inquired.

“He does. My ancestry is one of two with the longest streak of-” Dágfárik replied.

Dad stopped Dágfárik with a hand gesture before Dágfárik became a braggadocio. “My lineage has a long history of Alphas that have the Alpha Prime’s personal honorarium. It grants an Alpha to have more power and authority and have it apply to the whole country instead of a region. I am no exception, but you should know me by now that I restrain myself.”

“How many of these special Alphas exist?” I catechized.

Dad held up four fingers. “They’re all secret, but some have educated guesses.” The crowd erupted to cheers when Prime Álköveik appeared with his wife and daughter. A scholarly, austere Fenri was with them. “Well I’ll be damned. He showed up.”

Lárus scanned the prominent individuals.“Who?”

Dad segregated the erudite entity from the Alpha Prime and the crowd. “Fjöðvar.” His oldest sons exploded with excitement and awe.

I noticed Róstran having the opposite reaction, looking like he was sick from fright. “What’s wrong, Róstran?”

“I don’t know, but there’s an overwhelming presence smothering me,” Róstran stammered.

Dad also sensed something’s wrong with Róstran. “You okay, champ?”

“I think I’m having a panic attack!” Róstran emanated a hint of his hidden power.

Dad noticed it and repeatedly looked between Róstran and Fjöðvar, the latter looking intensely in our general area. “Get Róstran out of here and take him to where he’s staying while we’re in the capital.”

“I’ll go and take the pups with me,” mom spoke when she and dad both stood up. She kissed him on the lips. “You stay here and watch since the next match is important to you.”

Hrafnir and Æsignís also stood up. “We’ll accompany her,” he said.

Mom noticed dad’s trepidation and kissed him again. “They’ll keep me and Róstran safe, and I won’t divagate from the palace. Don’t worry.” Satisfied with his implicit acceptance, she, Æsignís, and Hrafnir escorted Róstran out of the arena. “Let me know how it goes!”

The final match lived up to the hype when it began. Íkamæn went in with no weapon and/or shield in his possession while Jærvmi had a rapier and light armor. Despite the inherent disadvantage, Íkamæn initiated the opening move. His celerity caught Jærvmi off guard, and he closed the gap. The blinding, rapid jabs on him amounted to a single point for him and not debilitating for Jærvmi, but he appeared satisfied when he jumped away. Jærvmi had an easier time stabbing air than him while the points ticked up to six. The first point for Jærvmi was the most crucial as it came from striking his right calf. It slowed him down enough to where the tide turned toward Jærvmi’s favor. The score bounced back and forth when Jærvmi was tied with him. He landed uppercuts to Jærvmi’s jaw. and crippled Jærvmi’s left arm. Jærvmi requited him by making him close his injured, bloody right eye and knocking him to the ground. Each side was one point away from winning with Jærvmi on the verge of winning.

“Any final words?” Jærvmi inquired, readying his rapier.

Íkamæn remained lackadaisical on the ground, staring at the imminent victor. “Just three. You already lost.”

“What?” Jærvmi said before suddenly collapsing and becoming unresponsive.

Íkamæn was the victor after a fugacious, intimate search of his body resulted in nothing for even the dirty referee to use against him. At best, the crowd was evenly divided between fandom and critics. The announcement for the upcoming schedule was a feast for the remaining champions tonight. Then, the matches tomorrow were between Kellam and Þjálfí, Íkamæn and the alleged cheater, and the winner from each round will fight in the finale. Whoever won would mate the Alpha Prime’s daughter and become the new Alpha Prime. A whole day after the final match would be for the special transition, primarily the unique Mating Ceremony, Álköveik’s abdication of the throne and transferring it to the winner, and the grand saturnalia. Dad was not amused by the current competitors, noting Þjálfí as the only bright spot in the selection, and he hoped Þjálfí’s accolades weren’t exaggerated.