I search for the Plebs, who fill tall seats on the east end of the bridge, some on the canyon lip itself. I cannot sit with them, so I linger where I won’t get in trouble, searching for the best vantage point. Fortunately, I’ve honed my climbing skills over the last month, and I find a place under one of the bridge’s arches.
The first challenge is between an Alpine and a Supra. Both trollis are enormous, easily eight feet tall and as thick as the columns in the training room. The Alpine wields a heavy sword and a club; the Supra, who gets cheers from the audience, hefts a spear and a long-handled axe. I recognize him from the council: Ichlad, who was the most adamant about ejecting me from the city. He looks so much more vibrant, more dangerous, in the sunlight.
The sun glints off the trollis’ weapons, emphasizing their sharp edges. I second-guess my coming here; I don’t have the stomach for true violence. I hold my breath as the combat begins and find myself often looking away.
I will stay for Perg’s battle, cheer for him, and then slip back into the city.
Bluish trollis blood spills on the bridge, but the fight lasts only a minute or two. The Alpine surrenders, raising empty hands and naming the Supra the winner. Both are able to walk away.
A Montra and an Alpine claim the next match, and the Alpine wins. The next is the same, only the Montra wins and the Alpine has to be dragged away by medics. He will survive, but the memories of my bruises—recent and long past—come to life as I watch.
I turn away from several of the contests. The lower-caste trollis are more desperate, their tactics more gruesome. No sense of chivalry exists between combatants—indeed, I cannot decipher any rules at all. One fight unravels with such violence that I plug my ears, and when I dare to look, both trollis have fallen. I’m not sure who will be named the victor, or whether there even is one.
I’m taking deep breaths to calm my roiling stomach when the announcer finally calls Perg. I stand and crane my neck, watching as he strides onto the bridge, his chin high and shoulders square. My heart twists at the sounds of laughter rippling through the crowd. A few trollis even jeer and spit names at him. Perg ignores them.
Please, gods, stars, give him this win. Give him a rank so he can feel loved.
A Deccor steps forward to meet him, and my knees threaten to buckle. The trollis is nearly the size of that first Supra. His stomach juts out like a pregnant woman’s, but his arms ripple with muscle. His neck is as thick as his head, and his tusks are enormous, though the point of one has been severed. His shaved head gleams in the sunlight, and his hand bears a wicked sword, similar to Unach’s.
I peer up into the stands and search for her, but she’s lost among waves of gray and green. Azmar as well.
Nearby, the Plebs start whispering. Trollis currency consists of uncut gems of various sizes, and a few exchange hands as bets are placed. If I had one, I would put it on Perg’s name, in the hope that he would feel my support.
I supplicate the heavens one more time. Please let him live.
The fight starts suddenly. I blink, and the two trollis lock in combat. The height difference between Perg and his foe measures the same as between Azmar and myself. I can only assume that is why the Deccor agreed to fight a half human; he will obviously win, and have an extra bead to bolster his rank.
But Perg is focused. I’m too far away to read his expression, but his determination permeates the hot air. His swift footwork helps him dodge the Deccor’s blows, but he’s yet to return a single one. The battle goes like this for some time, longer, I think, than the other bouts. Perg keeps the Deccor turning and eventually starts blocking the blows instead of evading them.
Because he’s moving in closer, inch by inch. And I don’t think the Deccor realizes it.
Perg shifts suddenly to the right, and his axe strikes the Deccor’s arm. I gasp, my hands flying to my mouth. The larger trollis drops his sword and stumbles back to cradle the injury. I can’t tell how bad it is, but I can imagine. If the trollis is lucky, that blade would have stopped at the bone.
The Deccor roars and charges, but his feet shamble from all the spinning. Perg ducks in and strikes again as he passes, to the side, I think; the Deccor’s enormous body blocks my view. The larger trollis falls prone, and Perg leaps onto his back, axe head pressed to the Deccor’s neck.
Yet the Deccor does not surrender. He rolls, sending Perg sprawling, but he’s not fast enough to retrieve a weapon. I look away when Perg brings the axe down with both hands, and a gasp echoes through the crowd.
Clenching my jaw, I peer back. I believe the Deccor still lives, but he’s unable to stand. Silence holds its breath. Medics come out to the arena.
A few boos burst from the audience. Behind me, many of the Plebs cheer—maybe they bet on Perg after all. The officiator comes out to declare Perg the winner, and the crowd erupts with a mix of pleasure and disdain.
I can see Perg’s grin from my cramped spot. He’s done it—he’s a Deccor, the third rank in the caste system. Cry as the crowd may, he’s rightfully earned it.
I applaud. But the sound of the crowd cuts out sharply. Perg hasn’t left the bridge. Someone shouts, but I can’t hear what.
Hoping to go unnoticed, I worm my way closer to the action, slipping between arches, then through clusters of trollis sitting and standing. Most are too intent on the arena to notice me. Others, I hope, will merely think I’m delivering a message to one of my betters.
“—and allow such monstrosity?” a bold, familiar voice bellows. I step around a trollis woman, and my stomach sinks as I recognize Grodd standing before the crowd, his arms raised. “He should not even be allowed the tournament! He is an abomination!”
About half of the crowd reacts in low, angry voices. Angry at Grodd or at Perg, I’m not sure, but my skin tingles as I watch. Nothing good can come of this.
Grodd marches forward and disappears into the crowd, and for a moment I think the complaints will end, but he returns swiftly, dragging a smaller trollis woman with him. Judging by her dress, she’s a Pleb.
He hands the shaking woman a sword and steps back, his arms spread wide.
Someone from the highest seats, near what I assume is the council, shouts, “A tournament cannot be entered unwillingly.”
“Oh, she’s willing,” Grodd bellows back. He looks at the Pleb. I’m not so far as to miss the malicious gleam in his eye.
Will he kill the woman out of anger? Does she mean something to Perg? Yet Perg looks as confused as I feel. What—
The woman lunges for Grodd, and Grodd allows her to strike him across the face with the flat of her sword. He falls dramatically to the ground.
The crowd gasps. I don’t breathe. I don’t understand.
Grodd, still supine, motions to someone, and the officiator hesitantly comes out to announce the Pleb the winner.
Another gasp sounds around me. Cold seizes my fingers. I press them into my neck.
Grodd, a Montra, just willingly gave his title to a Pleb. He exchanged one of the highest ranks for the lowest.
Why?
“Oh stars,” I whisper.