The already deafening roar of the crowd rose to a fevered pitch as the first contestant stepped out of his tent. He wore only ornately carved shining bronze greaves on his thighs, on top of his baggy white trousers. The red sash around his waist, flowing gaily with the heavy crosswind, identified him as an elite warrior of the sultan’s imperial guard. The toes on his bare feet achieved an easy and comfortable grasp in the loose, fine sand, warmed by the afternoon sun as he stepped onto the arena. A few hundred paces away, was a blue and white striped tent, which strangely had no banner anywhere near it, which was very atypical of Rennon’s knights. The other combatant was presumably still preparing, but the warrior did not allow his thoughts to stray. He emptied his mind of all thought, and gained an awareness of his own body’s every movement. His sword slowly became one with his mind, and his breathing became measured and even. Honing his concentration to a needle point, he maintained his state of combat awareness, ignoring the mixed crowd with both the desert garb of his people, and the colourful green, blue, yellow and brown clothing typical of Rennon’s citizenry.
The arena itself was originally used for jousting, which was evident in its length, but was refitted for fights on foot to accommodate the visiting sultan who sat next to his host, none other than King Archibald of Rennon. On the sultan’s left was the crown prince, and on the king’s right was his only daughter, princess Ciralen, proud and poised, and bathed in morning light. She was secretly quite fond of fencing, but due to her many commitments as a princess, never got very good at it. Nevertheless, she always accompanied her father to the yearly games, looking forward to the melee event. The sultan was quite comfortable beside his close friend and ally King Archibald, with whom he was in deep conversation about a wide variety of topics. Their agenda was quite packed this year, and they wasted no time getting to it. The match was about to start, however, and their discussion invariably steered towards it.
“So, who did you send out this year?” The king pointed at the impressive bronzed warrior who had just stepped out of his tent.
“His name is Rasheed, just into his prime, I must say. Proven in battle. A hundred heads, no less.” The sultan gestured towards the warrior with his heavily ringed finger. “You might just lose this year!” He added with raised eyebrows and a grin.
The king laughed and introduced his own contender. “You must forgive me, sultan, but hear me out first. The one I sent this year is only a young swordsman, not into his twenties. Never seen battle.” At this the sultan’s eyebrows shot even higher. “But! But! He is undefeated in single combat. Not even one of my knights could beat him. He even managed to garner a draw against the guard captain, Sir Thomas! So, I gave him a chance to prove himself worthy of joining my elite guard in this most worthy arena. He shall be the youngest to date, if successful. When he emerges victorious, you shall hear his name from his own lips.”
“Really now! I don’t think I shall be disappointed then. When you’re ready, go ahead.”
Standing up, the king raised a hand to silence the crowd, composed of people from all walks of life in his kingdom and his neighbour’s. “People of Al Miramar!” An answering shout shook the ground. “And of Rennon!” Another shout rang out from the sea of tiny figures. “Welcome to the Lantharum mountains arena! Today’s event is the Melee. Feast your eyes on the combatants. They come to prove their valour in combat, honour in knighthood. Pick your winners! Support the champions from your home town! This is their day. Win or lose, give them no reason to have bitter memory of it, but rather, let them commemorate this day as their Day! Of! Glory!”
The crowd was pretty stirred up by the speech, but their attention was quickly averted from the king on his elevated platform in the open grandstand, to the triple ranks of foot soldiers advancing on each other from the opposing lists. As the day wore on, they enjoyed the fighting styles of the two very different groups of warriors, engaging in various matches with various rules. However, the crowd was always mindful that the last fight of the day, where each country sends its champion for one on one battle. Soon, it was time, and the crowd fell ghostly silent. Surgeons busied themselves carting off the wounded, and the match ground was soon empty. It was late afternoon, and Rasheed had just stepped out of his animal skin tent, quietly awaiting his opponent.