Chapter 165: Martial Arts Tournament (3)
When Ian returned to Prince's Square, the third match was still underway.
He arrived just in time to see a grim spectacle: Ander Poole, with both hands on his sword, driving the blade through Barry's breastplate and burying its point deep in the mercenary's chest.
The sight stunned Ian. *Could that boy really be so strong?* was his first, disbelieving thought.
But a moment later, reason took over. The fault lay not in Ander's strength, but in the abysmal quality of the armor.
Even common medium-carbon steel plate would turn aside a longsword's thrust. The mercenary's breastplate, then, had to be made of simple wrought iron, or low-carbon steel at best. It probably hadn't even been surface-hardened.
Ian's mind flashed to scenes from the histories he knew—tales where armor was run through by sword and spear alike. He recalled Roel's instruction when teaching him to fence: a well-mastered thrust was enough to defeat most foes.
These details coalesced into a troubling question. Had he vastly overestimated this world's steelmaking technology? Was the quality of armor generally poor? Or did it simply vary wildly, with a few master-forged suits standing high above a sea of shoddy imitations?
Barry was just a mercenary, true; one could not draw a grand conclusion from his cheap equipment alone.
But what of the Mountain? Gregor Clegane was Lord Tywin's chief enforcer, a man whose master could shit gold. And yet, hadn't Oberyn Martell's spear pierced his breastplate? Oberyn's spear was poisoned, not enchanted. That it could punch through the Mountain's plate meant that even the armor of a great lord's champion was of mediocre quality.
Further evidence supported this line of thinking. The preferred weapon of the knights of Westeros was the sword, not the war hammer or military pick designed specifically to crush and puncture plate. It all pointed to the same conclusion.
This revelation also explained the prevalence of medium and light armor among the fighters on both Hazan's and Suda's sides. While their champions might be poor, their masters were not. They could have afforded better protection, but clearly deemed it unnecessary.
Ian gave a short, sarcastic laugh. He had been a fool, assuming this world's technology mirrored that of the late fifteenth century, simply because its history echoed the War of the Roses. He had forgotten that on his own world, the development of plate armor had been a desperate arms race against the firearm. Here, with no gunpowder, there was no such pressure driving smiths to innovate.
Furthermore, the unnaturally long seasons, where summer and winter could stretch for years, would surely stifle the development of basic industries like iron smelting. The quality of unenchanted armor in this world, he now concluded, was likely closer to that of the late thirteenth or early fourteenth century.
His thoughts concluded as Ander Poole limped from the fighting platform. The tournament paused, preparing for the fourth match.
"Ander is injured?" Ian asked, turning to Yada, who had just rejoined him in the stands.
Yada smacked his lips. "Ander had the absolute advantage at the start. He took three of Barry's strikes without so much as flinching. But then, for some reason, he just… froze. That's when Barry got in with a hand axe and caught him in the joint of his right leg."
"Ander was quick to react and finished Barry on the counterattack," he added, "but his leg will surely slow him down in the fights to come."
Ian smiled to himself.
His plan had worked. He had timed the assassination of Belz, Ander's ally, to coincide with the match, knowing the system notification of the kill would appear in Ander's vision and disrupt his focus. It hadn't been enough to make him lose, but a wounded leg was a worthy consolation.
The combatants for the fourth match were soon announced. Hazan dispatched Shai, a red-robed monk who had once served as the Hand of the Holy Fire in the Great Red Temple. The man wore only chainmail, foregoing a helmet, and wielded a spear nearly three and a half meters long, its tip wreathed in flame. Suda, in turn, sent forth another of his champion gladiators.
Ian paid the match little mind at first. Instead, he accessed the auxiliary system from his seat in the stands to review his recent gains.
`[Successfully killed a player. Gained 4 points, seized 6 points, and gained 1 extra point of Mental Power.]`
"Damn beggar," Ian muttered under his breath, seeing the paltry sum he had seized. Belz must have poured nearly all of his resources into Ander, keeping just enough points to avoid falling into the bottom three. The thought only sharpened Ian's resolve to have his own men kill Ander Poole. Only then would he claim the full spoils of victory.
He then called up his own status.
`[Ian: Strength 32, Agility 27, Mental Strength 22]`
`Skills: Basic Etiquette, Basic Reading and Writing (Common Tongue), Proficient Swordsmanship, Advanced Equestrian Skills, Intermediate Lance, Intermediate Skinchanger, Basic Greenseer`
`Attribute Points: 0`
`Skill Points: 2`
`Points: 62`
`Props: Scroll of Basic Skills (Player's Choice), Skill Upgrade Scroll`
Satisfied, he closed the system interface and turned his attention back to the arena.
The fight dragged on for nearly twenty minutes. Suda's gladiator came close to killing the monk on several occasions, but Shai's stamina proved superior. In the end, the exhausted gladiator was run through the chest with the flaming spear.
For the fifth match, Suda sent a Dothraki warrior into the sands. Eager to press his advantage and give Ander less time to recover, Ian advised Hazan to send Bronn.
Bronn did not disappoint. He dispatched the Dothraki in the fourth minute of the fight.
And so, the tournament came to its sixth match. It was Hazan's turn to commit a fighter first.
Suda had only two combatants left: himself, and the Ibbenese man known as the 'Elephant Hunter.' Convention dictated that neither Suda nor Hazan would fight personally until the final round. Therefore, their next opponent would almost certainly be the Elephant Hunter.
The man had never fought in the White Sands Arena, but his reputation was fearsome. Unsure of his true strength, Ian planned to send one of Hazan's men to test the waters. With two fighters in reserve besides Hazan himself, and a strong lead in victories, they could afford a loss.
Hazan, however, was reluctant to sacrifice one of his own. Together, they settled on a name: Jorah Mormont.
The man was one of Varys's agents. Ian knew he could never truly take the knight into his confidence, so he cared little for his fate. To Hazan, Jorah was simply a sellsword, paid to fight and die if need be.
And so, Hazan sent Jorah Mormont to fight in the sixth match.
As expected, Suda sent the Elephant Hunter to meet him.
He was a long-haired brute of a man, with an unnaturally broad chest and shoulders that dwarfed his slightly shorter legs. His long arms were corded with muscle. Three throwing spears were strapped to his back. In his right hand, he carried a short-handled iron axe; in his left, a round shield covered in brown fur.
The man was from Ibben, an island nation far to the north in the Shivering Sea. His people lived by hunting whales, but their greatest warriors ventured onto the northern ice sheets to hunt mammoths, earning them the title of 'elephant hunters.' They were a short, immensely strong people, though not known for their wits.
The Ibbenese spoke neither the Common Tongue nor Valyrian, so the customary introductions and salutes were dispensed with. The referee simply announced the start of the match.
The Elephant Hunter exploded into motion at the signal. He took two powerful strides and hurled one of the spears from his back.
The fighting platform was small, and the spear crossed the distance in a blur. Jorah threw himself aside, the missile hissing past his ear. But before he could recover his footing, the second spear was already in the air. This one struck true, punching through his abdomen with enough force to lift him from his feet and pin him to the wooden planks of the stage.
"A monster," Ian breathed. He exchanged a look with Hazan, seeing his own shock reflected in the magister's eyes.
So this was Ander Poole's ace in the hole, the monstrous confidence that allowed him to risk his own life in a contest to the death.
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