So, I don't know if anyone else is as excited for Battlebond as I am, but I'm loving the sports/esports vibe to the whole set, and it made me want to write. Anyway, this is the first installment in what I'm guessing is going to be a Battlebond-inspired serial, and I had a lot of fun with it!
The azra, Griss thought, was in trouble. There were two cyclopses bearing down on her – one on either side – and she was backing herself into a corner.
The cyclops on her right was holding his club over his head, as though it were an ax, and he meant to cleave the azra in two. The cyclops to her left, meanwhile, had dropped into a low, wary crouch, and was keeping her club close to the ground, threatening to sweep the azra’s legs if she tried to escape.
The cyclopses were advancing – slowly, carefully – keeping the much smaller azra between them. The azra, meanwhile, was giving ground. Her eyes darted back and forth, looking from one cyclops to the other, and she kept out of reach of their swings. But she was running out of room – just a few more steps, and she’d find her back against the arrow-pocked wall. And then, Griss thought, it would be over.
The game of catfolk-and-mouse played itself out for a few more tense seconds – the cyclopses advancing, the azra retreating – until the azra’s back foot crunched against powdered stone, and the wooden balustrade. The cyclopses seemed almost to relax, sensing that their quarry was at hand. The azra, meanwhile, flexed slightly at the knees, held her twin falxes at the ready, and dropped into the combat stance.
Griss licked the tip of his pencil, and he waited to see what the azra would do.
The cyclops on the left bit first, lunging with her club in a low, sweeping arc designed to take the azra out at the knees. But, just as soon as the cyclops had committed to that attack, the azra was up and moving. She jumped up, leaping easily over the strike, and then – kicking off against the wall – launched herself into the air. The lunging cyclops was caught off-guard, and tried desperately to redirect her swing, but it was too late, and the momentum of her club carried her forward. The azra, meanwhile, executed a textbook somersault midair, and, with a piercing battle cry which echoed from the retractable rafters, brought both of her falxes slashing down across the back of the cyclops’s exposed neck.
The twin blades deflected off the lethality barrier which crackled into being just before their metal bit skin, and the cyclops kept its head. But the protective spell did nothing to lessen the blunt force of the blow, and the cyclops grunted in pain as she toppled over forwards, landing face-flat in the dust and dirt. From the hovering scoreboard overhead, a harsh buzzer sounded, and a red “X” appeared next to the cyclops’s jersey number.
On the open sheet in his notebook, Griss found the word “speed,” and, next to it, made a plus.
The azra wasn’t done yet, though – there was still the other cyclops to deal with. Bellowing with rage, he brought his club down in a mighty, two-handed chop. But, again, the cyclops had telegraphed his strike, and the azra tucked and rolled, so that, by the time the blow landed, the only thing in the path of the cyclops’s swing was the sprawling body of his dazed teammate. Again, the lethality barrier crackled, and a kind of banshee moan escaped from the prone cyclops as the wayward strike crushed the wind from her body.
Griss saw the azra grin. With his pencil, he found “awareness” in his notebook, and next to it scribbled plus-plus.
The azra, meanwhile, had jumped on the cyclops’s outstretched club and was sprinting up, like a gymnast taking the balance beam. There was just enough time for the cyclops’s great eye to go wide before the azra was on him, delivering a flying kick to the solar plexus. That doubled the cyclops over, and next to “strength” Griss made a plus. Staggering backwards, the cyclops lost hold of his club. But that was no matter to the azra, who pushed off from the cyclops’s body as he tumbled, and – making a fine pirouette as she leapt – threw one of her falxes in an arc at the cyclops’s bulging eye. The blue barrier crackled, and the glittering falx bounced away, but the cyclops cried out in pain, and fell backwards like a sawn-off tree, clutching his watery eye. Above him, the scoreboard shrilled, and another red “X” appeared in the elimination column. The azra, meanwhile, landed softly on the balls of her feet, and, without moving an inch from where she stood, reached one hand up for the spinning falx, which she caught neatly by the handle.
On the sand of the training ground, both cyclopses writhed and moaned. Griss found the line on his sheet for “agility,” and next to it marked a plus-plus.
From his seat near the back of the bleachers, Griss smiled inwardly to himself. He was beginning to like this azra. He really, really was.
As the azra charged back to the center of the arena, where a general melee prevailed, Griss took a second to review all his notes. He’d had his eye on a few different combatants at the start of the bout, but, since the first intermission, the azra had been the sole focus of his attention. He’d graded her a minus for size; she was young, still – very young – and her horns were still just barely out. But she would grow into her body, Griss reckoned, as teenagers tended to do, and, with the right conditioning, there was no reason she couldn’t make weight. Even now, she was strong, and quick, and she saw the battlefield well. In fact, that was what had first impressed Griss, had drawn his eye to her. Most of the fighters her age he had scouted suffered from varying degrees of tunnel vision – they picked out one opponent to target, and became so fixated on their quarry that they missed other, better chances to score. The battlefield was dynamic, and chaotic – windows of opportunity appeared in the blink of an eye, and slammed shut just as quick. The best fighters knew how to spot them, and took maximum advantage. They had almost a sixth sense for it. They could see the play coming before it developed, and, when the gap opened up, they were through it, surprising the other team from unexpected angles of attack. It took years of live fighting to develop that instinct – sharp eyes and quick wits were no substitute for experience – but the azra already had it – or at least the seed of it, anyway. More than once in the opening period, Griss had seen her slip out of a trap which would’ve snared most young fighters, or find a way to turn her opponent’s strengths to her own advantage. Her kick off the wall had been just one such example. More importantly, she was always looking, always watching. She kept her head on a swivel, as the scouts liked to say, and was aware of what went on all around. She saw the whole battlefield, this azra, not just the thin slice in front of her. Even if she never made it as a pro, Griss thought, she’d be a hell of a coach, or a sportscaster.
Feeling swayed by this further reflection, Griss found the “awareness” column on his scouting report, and added a third plus. From him, this was high praise. Griss was not liberal in his use of the triple-plus.
Her spellcasting was the wildcard – Griss still had a question mark penciled-in next to “magic.” The azra hadn’t done much casting since the match had begun, but, then, she hadn’t needed to. Between her wits and her twin falxes, she’d been doing just fine. But any doubt about her magical aptitude was removed seconds later, when – sprinting across the arena to the aid of a mind-controlled teammate – the azra had cast a firebolt at the opposing mage. It was an anemic spell, barely scorching the air, which the mind mage swatted contemptuously aside.
The azra would probably never be a plus-spellcaster, Griss thought resignedly to himself. But with the right training she might at least become average, and, even against more skilled mages, she was hardly incapable of defending herself.
This point was illustrated vividly over the next few moments, after the azra had closed the distance to the mind mage. The mind mage had commanded his enthralled homunculus to step between himself and the charging azra, and the homunculus swung its spear at the azra’s head. But the azra ducked under the strike, and, hooking the homunculus’s leg with the dull edge of her blade, she gave a quick pull, sweeping his legs out from beneath him. This sent the homunculus to the ground, where he rolled awkwardly on his rounded back. The azra kicked the spear from his hand as she shot past, taking him momentarily out of the fight, but stopping short of an elimination. The mind mage, meanwhile, finding himself deprived of his erstwhile meat shield, had conjured a psionic blast, and sent the energy rippling in waves towards the azra’s head.
The azra – without breaking stride – dropped to the ground and slid. As she passed beneath the psionic blast, she slashed up with one falx, catching the mind mage beneath the chin. The lethality field sparked, and the scoreboard buzzer sounded. The liberated homunculus blinked, and the mind mage angrily swore.
The mind mage stopped swearing a second later, when the azra’s second falx flashed up between his legs, catching him solidly in a place where – even with the protection of the lethality field – the impact made the mage’s eyes bulge, before he sank – wordlessly – to the ground.
All the way up in the bleachers, Griss crossed his legs, and muttered uncomfortably.
The scoreboard buzzed again, a red “X” appearing over the mind mage’s number, and a yellow penalty card next to the azra’s.
Ignoring the wardens who came running to escort her off the field, the azra stepped over the mind mage’s prone body, and helped the dazed homunculus to his feet.
In his notebook, Griss made a minus in the azra’s column next to “magic,” and a plus-plus next to “teamwork.”
Then he sharpened his pencil, and settled in for rest of the bout.
* * *
The final horn had already blown, and the crowd was headed for the exits, but Griss had stayed behind to put the finishing touches on his report. He was still sitting in his bleacher seat, and had just assigned final grades, when he felt a hand clap him twice on the shoulder. Looking up, he saw Tommothy – another goblin, and a fellow scout, who always dressed as though he were headed to the opera, with his shiny brass binoculars, and his ridiculous hat.
Having gotten Griss’s attention, Tommothy clapped his rival on the shoulder again.
“Griss, it is you,” Tommothy said, smiling a smile that was just slightly too wide for sincerity. “I thought I recognized those ears. I said to myself, ‘either I’m going blind, or that’s old Can’t-Miss Griss.’”
“Tommothy,” Griss said, not returning the goblin’s grin.
Griss’s fellow scouts called him Can’t-Miss, and it was an appellation he detested. He had once made the mistake of giving an overall plus-plus rating to an up-and-coming spider, who had subsequently turned out to be blind in six eyes. A plus-plus overall was the best rating a scout could give – the mark of a can’t-miss prospect – and Griss’s defensive protestations that most non-spiders only had two working eyes, and they got by just fine, had fallen on deaf ears. The spider had been a bust, and the nickname – Can’t-Miss Griss – had stuck. The other scouts thought it was a joke. Griss never laughed.
“And how are you, you old Can’t-Miss?” Tommothy said, undeterred by the frosty reception. “Still up to your old tricks?”
Griss shrugged. “I get by,” he said. “I get by.” Then, purely out of form, he added, “I trust you’re well, Tommothy,” and immediately regretted it.
“Can’t complain,” Tommothy said. “Can’t complain.” The goblin’s grin widened, revealing a flash of gold teeth. “Three of my prospects just signed with Swiftfoot, and my cup, it runneth over. It’s good to have that sneaker money coming in, I don’t mind telling you, what with the cost of education these days.” The goblin shook his head, which made his ears flop. “That Swiftfoot deal is putting six of the little Tommothys through the Academy, if you catch my meaning.”
“Glad to hear it,” Griss said, which wasn’t true. He had met several of Tommothy’s kids, and thought they were all little ****. The youngest had once pulled Griss’s ears at a party.
“Still,” Tommothy said, a conspiratorial glint in his eye, “I know you don’t like to talk shop, but what did you make of the giant?”
Griss didn’t bother to consult his notes. The giant – a veritable mountain of muscle, by the name of K’Thook – was the prospect all the scouts had come to see. His size was the stuff of legend, and he’d so dominated the junior leagues that they’d had to add an extra column to the stat books. The training bout had been billed as K’Thook’s coming-out party, and the stands had been lousy with scouts, all craning their necks up to see him. But, just minutes into the match, Griss had stopped taking notes on the giant, and penciled a minus next to his name.
“He’s big enough, that’s for sure,” Griss said, not bothering to reserve his judgment, since he wasn’t telling Tommothy anything the other goblin couldn’t see for himself. “Looks like he could snap a treefolk in half – it’s no wonder he tore through the juniors. But he’s sloppy,” Griss said, “and he’s slow. No fundamentals, no technique. You saw what I saw. Sure, he scored some big hits, but those other kids ran circles around him. Against good competition – not just pro-level talent, mind you, but even a good, D-1 squad? He’ll get his clock cleaned.”
“Yes,” Tommothy said. “Yes.” The goblin nodded his head, and made affirmatory noises. “Still, you know what they say: you can teach technique, but you can’t teach big!” Tommothy chuckled at this tired old aphorism. “And that kid’s got big!”
“Sure does,” Griss said, declining the invitation to argue. “Well, give my best to Missus Tommothy, will you?”
“I will,” Tommothy said, bobbing his head. “I will. It was good seeing you again, Can’t-Miss. You oughta come by sometime.”
The other goblin made to depart, but, as he was leaving, Griss called out after him, “say, Tommothy, you didn’t happen to catch the name of that azra, did you? The one in the number-ten jersey?” He kept his voice casual, trying to sound disinterested. “I was taking a powder when they made the announcements, and I didn’t quite catch her name.”
Tommothy paused, and, flipping open his own scouting report, he consulted his notes. “The azra in jersey ten?” he said, running his finger down the page. “I’m sure I must have. Ah – here she is.” He tapped the paper. “Yes, here she is. Name of Hex. Alexa Hex.”
“Alexa Hex,” Griss said, committing the name to memory. “Thanks, Tommothy. You’re a real pal.”
Tommothy shrugged. “It’s no skin off my nose,” he said, scratching a protuberant nostril as he did. “Still, can’t see why you’re interested in her. Some flashy moves, for sure, but did you see that firebolt? Couldn’t magic her way out of a paper bag if you gave her a mox and a jug of kerosene. She’s reckless – and tiny, too! So tiny! And no intangibles. She got lucky today, sure, but, once the book’s out on her?” Tommothy grimaced, and clicked his tongue. “Well, they’ll be taking her off on a stretcher one day, mark my words.”
“I’m sure that you’re right,” Griss said, and nodded. “It’s like you always say: you can teach technique, but you can’t teach big.”
“Just so,” Tommothy said. “Just so.” And he waved goodbye. “Well, it was good seeing you, Griss.”
“Good seeing you too, Tommothy,” Griss said, but did not look up to watch his fellow scout depart. Instead he was looking down at his notebook, where he had written “Alexa Hex” next to the grade that said: “Jersey 10. Azra. Overall: plus-plus.” Then, beneath, the scout added: “Can’t miss.”
Alexa Hex, Griss thought to himself, as he closed his notebook, and made his way up through the stands.
Now that’s a name that will look good on a jersey.
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