Red and green summer grasses hid the tough, tundra-like ground, which was usually bare during the plain's miserable, long cold winters. But during the summer, the grasses miraculously burst from the hardened earthen floor. Grasses high enough, that in many places, a tall man's head could not be seen above them.
In other places on the plain the grasses would not grow. Occasionally there would be a field of jomet flowers, whose seeds could be ground into grain, or a forest of meatwood trees, whose bark could be flavored to taste like meat, or dangerous bogs whose only value was to provide peat for fires. Occasionally there would be an area, kept carefully clear of grasses, where a village would lie, with sod houses for the poor and houses made of meatwood for the rich. In the larger villages, there would be a great building made of stone imported for Rizza and Mizza. One such of these large villages is the village of Tybia.
Tybia lies upon the great Crowland Plain, thirty lengths west of the capital of the Crow nation.
Three lengths north of Tybia are ten men. Ten men who must cross a high grassland, a field of jomet flowers, a bog, and a forest of meatwood trees to reach the village of Tybia. These ten men represent the ten major tribes that make up the nation of Crow.
Why did these ten men have to make this journey? At the moment, the nation of Crow was leaderless, its King killed in the war against the rebellious tribes of Daz, Boby and Firt. The problem was how to select another king without further dividing the remaining ten tribes that composed the Crow nation.
The sorcerers of the tribes met in the city of Crow and tried to resolve a method for selecting a King, a strong King, with force and power, gained in such a way that the other tribes would not object. They decided to set up a contest, where each of the ten tribes would send their own selected candidate to compete for King.
The contest would be to travel the three lengths of treacherous land to Tybia. It would begin at sunrise, and the first candidate to arrive in Tybia would be declared the King. The only rule was that a player could not go more than one quarter length either to the left or right of his starting position. Doing so would result in death.
It was almost sunrise.
They stood waiting in line, with mislke horses thick with black fur by their sides, waiting in a row like jockeys, waiting for the dawn to come, and for the fat sorcerer from Roby to clap his hands, their signal to start their deadly trek.
Joulin the Swift of Paz, Trax the Brave of Aoby, Lorth the Determined of Poby, Craler the Noble of Matavia, Femor the sly of Fu, Belo the Daring of Zunnel, Hask the Great of Zoby, Marto the Agile of Toby, Nebil the Tyrant of Rody, and Demar the Sincere of Crow, all waiting for the dawn to come, waiting for a chance to rule an empire.
The sun began to rise, its red light flooding across the grasslands just ahead of them. The two fat hands of the sorcerer came together in a loud whack.
Three men dived into the high grasses leading their horses behind them, and quickly disappeared into the thick mass. Three others tried to mount their horses and bull their way through the thick grasses. One of the latter group, Marto the Agile, went at a slower pace than the other two. When those two, Belo the Daring and Trax the Brave, had not gone more than twenty feet, Marto the Agile swiftly sang an arrow into each of their backs.
Four men stayed at the starting gate, hoping to stay behind and then merge ahead of the slaughter they felt was going on. Three of these men were involved in the conspiracy led by Craler the Noble. Craler the Noble was offended by the contest, and felt it a highly improper way to choose a King. He wanted to see a King elected by reason, not by force or arbitrary games. He thought the best way to mess up the contest was to have more than one person enter the village at the same time. He enlisted the aid of the two men he trusted the most, Hask the Great and Demar the Sincere, and they readily agreed to his scheme.
A half-hour passed, and then the three conspirators mounted their horses and charged into the grassland. Femor the Sly remained at the starting gate, making no attempt to kill the three, not feeling he had the capacity to kill all three swiftly enough.
Lorth the Determined and Joulin the Swift met each other in the deep grasses. Lorth fought with the bitter determination he is named for, Joulin was too fast. Lorth fell to the ground, a knife twisted into his gut. Joulin kneeled towards him and whispered, his eyes reflecting his sincerity, "I am sorry," but Lorth did not seem to understand. Joulin jumped up, found his horse and quickly left. Lorth was left alone to die.
"Why," he cried in anger, "must I die? I strived. I tried. I gave up everything to win. Is it not enough to strive, to try, to use all of one's capacities? What else must one do to become a victor?"
Lorth tried to pull his body across the ground, continuing to strive out of instinct. But it was to no avail. He had only gone a yard before he died, and that was in the wrong direction.
When Marto the Agile emerged onto the field of jomet flowers, he hid his horse in the grasses that adjoined the field. He laid down in the flowers, perfectly still.
A few minutes later, Nebil the Tyrant emerged from the grasses. Nebil climbed upon his horse but did not have a chance to spur it, as Marto shot an arrow through his skull.
Soon afterwards, Joulin the Swift came bursting out of the forest, already upon his horse, his arms gripping the neck of his horse. Marto the Agile rapidly fired three arrows at the speedy target, but they all missed. Marto exclaimed a Tobian curse word, retrieved his horse and gave chase.
Joulin raced across the fields, with Marto in pursuit. Soon Joulin came to the boglands. He could not afford to go slowly across this bog-infested land, so he threw caution to the wind, and swiftly flew his horse over and between the bogs
But fate caught up to him. His horse landed in a bog, and threw him headfirst into another bog.
Marto came in time to see the horse's head and Joulin's feet sink into the bogs. Marto chuckled and with a grim smile said, "Sometimes we go too swiftly for our own good."
Femor the Sly emerged from the tall grasses and looked upon the open field. He decided to go cautiously left. After going almost one-half length, he still could see no one. His plan was to secretly move out of the playing area, and move back in when he comes close to the edge of the forest. He proceeded to do this.
Arrows pierced him from several directions. Men emerged from foxholes to claim the body of Femor the Sly.
Now only four remained in the contest, Marto and the three conspirators. Marto hid in the forest, waiting for those who remained to come. He wanted to be the only survivor, so that he would be the clear winner, and have no snivelers after his crown. He crouched hidden in a tree, where he could see the entire bogland playing area.
The three conspirators moved swiftly, but cautiously. They had only seen three dead bodies, so they believed four others to be alive.
Marto saw them coming across the boglands. He let loose an arrow that stabbed Craler the Noble in the leg. All three jumped behind their horses. Demar the Sincere shot an arrow that shook and cracked the tree where Marto was hidden. Marto, with his great agility was uninjured from the fall, but not from the arrow Hack the Great sent through his side upon his landing.
The three conspirators came up to Marto. Demar asked, "Has anyone passed through here yet?"
"No," replied Marto, lying bleeding upon the ground, looking towards the sky.
"Do you know how many are dead?," asked Demar.
Marto did not answer. He was dead.
"May the gods of Toby find peace for ye soul," Demar spoke gentle. "Come, we must be off."
The injured Craler led the group, a smile on his face despite the pain. Hask the Great, riding behind him, slowly withdrew his sword and put it an angle to slice the head off of Craler the Noble. Hask started to gallop his horse towards Craler.
Craler the Noble heard galloping and then the sing of an arrow. He turned around and saw Hask the Great slumping upon his horse, with an arrow in his back, his hand grasping his sword. He looked further back and saw Demar with a bow in his hand.
"Demar!," said Craler, turning his horse to face Demar. "Thank the gods! You stopped the traitor from ending my life! Now come, let's win this contest and end these silly games for good."
"No," said Demar.
"What do you mean, no?"
Demar started to withdraw an arrow from his quiver. "There will be only one King." Craler tried to defend himself but it was too late. An arrow penetrated his chest and went through his heart. "Me."
Demar the Sincere became the King. His rule resulted in the secession of all the tribes except the Crow, and this is the state the Pazorians found the island of Crowland.
The Pazorians, controllers of a huge continent, had never before heard a tale of such vicious competition. The only thing they could think of that remotely compared with it was their universities and schools. But of course, these institutions always produced good results.
Didn't they?
Another story I wrote in college. If only I had thought to make them younger and call it The Hunger Games.
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