Advertise on podcast: Saga of the Jewels

Previously on Saga of the Jewels… The life of seventeen-year-old RYN, bookish son of a wealthy landowner, changes forever when his hometown is destroyed by the EMPIRE and everyone he has ever known is killed. Ryn discovers that the Empire are seeking TWELVE PRIMEVAL JEWELS which grant the power to manipulate different elements, and that his father had been hiding the FIRE RUBY. He sets out to take revenge on the Imperial General who killed his family and retrieve the Fire Ruby, and along the way meets NUTHEA the lightning-slinging princess, SAGAR the swaggering skypirate, ELRANN the tomboy engineer, CID the wizened old healer, and VISH the poppy-seed-addicted bounty hunter. Together the companions decide to find all of the Jewels in order to stop the evil EMPEROR from finding them first and taking over the world. They have thus far succeeded in retrieving the Fire Ruby, borne by Ryn, and the Lightning Crystal, borne by Nuthea. They have now come to the land of FARR where they intend to compete in a hand-to-hand fighting tournament in an attempt to win its prize, the EARTH EMERALD… EPISODE FORTY-FOUR: THE TOURNAMENT: GRAND FINAL Clouds were gathering. Win this tournament, Ryn thought, as fast as possible. Get the Earth Emerald. Get out of here. Find the other Jewels. Save the world. Stay with Nuthea. Live a meaningful life. Don’t lose. The hulking figure of Huld regarded him from the other side of the arena, bald and brawny in his green robes. The monk stood legs apart with one foot slightly further forward than the other, hands held up with splayed fingers in a fighting stance, something he had not even done for Sagar. Sagar had forfeited his match in the end to chase after some woman he had fought earlier while Ryn and Nuthea had been speaking to the Governor. That meant that Ryn had to fight Huld instead of the skypirate. He was actually more nervous at the prospect of fighting the monk, but at least he wasn’t having to fight a friend. Cid had healed Ryn after his last match against Vish, so that he was fighting fit again and ready. But Huld hadn’t even needed any healing after his match with Sagar, despite it being offered according to their agreement with the Governor. The Farrian audience made no sound at all. Ryn could hear his own breathing. He reviewed his plan. He had already decided how he would open in this match. He didn’t want the monk to have an opportunity to get close to him. The boy knew he couldn’t win against Huld in a straight fight, but if he was able to keep the monk at bay with his elemental projection, he might just have a chance. Vish had said as much, anyway, and Vish knew a lot more about fighting than he did. “READY……FIGHT!” shouted the announcer for the last time that day. Ryn flung his hands forwards immediately, launching a hot, orange fireball at Huld. The monk made a raising hand gesture at once and a section of the stone arena floor rose up to form a wall in front of him, which the fireball broke apart on, scorching it black. Cid’s words of advice echoed in Ryn’s mind: Elemental projections still obey the normal laws of nature. Fire may consume earth or wood or vegetation, but it cannot burn stone. It is young man’s Huld’s body that will be especially susceptible to fire attacks. But that meant Ryn would need to land a hit on Huld’s body. The wall of stone that the monk had raised suddenly broke off from the floor and shot towards Ryn, a man-sized slab rushing along the ground. He dived to one side out of the way, lost his footing and stumbled over, but then came up again as fast he could, not wanting to spare Huld a single moment to exploit, throwing another fireball at him as he rose. This one the monk dodged, casually side-stepping out of its path. Ryn threw another. Another. Another, trying to anticipate where the monk was going to dodge to next. This tactic had just about worked on Vish, but somehow Huld sidestepped and weaved so unpredictably that Ryn couldn’t hit him. The fireballs only hit with the floor or shot over the heads of the audience. Huld didn’t jump into the air like Vish had, and he didn’t even bother using earth manipulation to block Ryn’s projectiles any more. It looked like landing a hit was going to be even more difficult than he had thought. His first tactic exhausted, hot panic flooded Ryn’s head. He lit himself on fire with a shout and ran at Huld. If he couldn’t land a hit with a ranged attack, he would just have to try hitting him up close. The flames billowed around Ryn’s body as he ran. The monk held his ground, standing stone still with bunched fists. Ryn arrived putting all of his weight behind a mad punch, another angry shout involuntarily issuing from his lips. He almost connected, but at the last moment Huld side-stepped out of the way again and Ryn went past him. Fearing a counter, Ryn turned immediately with a flaming kick. The monk took a step back out of the way of it. Ryn tried another kick with his other leg, then another and another, then even threw in one of Vish’s roundhouse kicks, surprised that he had remembered how to do it from the week’s training. The monk moved out of the way of them all. His movements were deliberate, controlled, efficient, expending the minimal amount of energy required to dodge out of the way of the Ryn’s desperate attacks. The boy switched back to punches, chasing after Huld and flinging his fists out at the monk, who only danced away from them. Ryn came to a halt, breathing hard, the fire around his body still burning, having failed to land a single hit. Huld merely continued to regard him from where he had ended up a few paces away, now holding his hands behind his back. Damn it, but the monk wasn’t just strong, he was also so fast. A man that size shouldn’t be able to move so quickly! “Are you toying with me?” Ryn asked, keeping his voice quiet so that the crowd, and Nuthea, wouldn’t hear. “No,” the monk said straightforwardly with his omnipresent smile. “I am just observing your style some more.” Then the smile disappeared into a flat line, possibly the first time that Ryn had seen it drop. “What there is of it, at least. This would be toying with you, foreigner.” A wedge of stone rose up out of the floor in front of Ryn, smashing into his chest, hitting him so hard he was chucked up into the air. His fire went out. He hung for a moment at the apex of his flight, aware that he was about to fall back to earth. But then something else smacked into his back, bright pain erupting across it, one, two, three times, he lost count in the pain. Now he flew upwards, delirious with shock, the dark clouds in the sky getting nearer for a few moments, then hung weightless once more. He began to fall again, and as he did so he turned over in the air helplessly and fell head-first. Huld, moving towards him, standing atop a pillar of stone that he was causing to rise up from the ground. The monk reached him and punched him in the stomach. Now Ryn was thrown along the horizontal, he knew from the thrilled faces of the crowd that passed below. He was going to land among them, out of bounds. No I’m not, damn it! He found his bearings and thrust his hands in the direction he was moving in, projecting fire from them. Jets of flame appeared, the push-back from them arresting his flight, then reversing it, so that he began to move back the way he had come, flipping over and beginning to fly back into the arena, now holding his hands out behind him. He shut his jaw tight against the pain setting in all over his body, then looked for where he was going to land. Huld had come down from his pillar and stood waiting, no sign of surprise on his smiling face at all. Ryn found the wherewithal to light himself on fire again, and at the same time he projected fire from the soles of his feet, further accelerating his flight, and directed himself at the monk But Huld still had time to raise another stone barrier before Ryn made impact. Ryn screamed with rage and pulled his limbs in to his chest, curling himself up and holding his fists in front of his face. He cannonballed into the wall, the impact smashing against his forearms and rattling his teeth, then heard the shuddering sound of stone breaking apart. He collided with Huld beyond it in a shower of stone and dust, smacking full into the monk’s body and bouncing off him and to the side, where he hit the floor hard, bounced a few more times and came to a stop on his back. Spinning dark clouds above him, and the noise of the audience’s angry shouts in his ears. He groaned as the pain caught up to him fully. Terrible, aching bruises on his arms, the backs of his hands, his chest, his back, his stomach, his head. His whole body throbbed with them. His flame-aura had extinguished again, but at least he was still conscious, and he was dimly hopeful that the flames had still been around him when he had collided with Huld. The monk wasn’t following up with any attacks, Ryn realised. In spite of the pain, he forced his body to turn over and push itself shakily to its feet. Sure enough, the monk was only just getting up from where he had landed some length away himself, near one edge of the arena. A blackened semi-circle marred the front of his robes where they hung down over his chest from one shoulder. Little flames still burned here and there on them. Huld grunted as he grabbed the robes with one hand and tore off the top of them, ripping them from his body and throwing them out of the arena where they landed in the sand in a smouldering heap, leaving only his legs covered. His chest, a chiselled arrangement of discrete rectangular muscles, was now marked by its own big, purple bruise where Ryn had cannonballed into him when on fire. The monk grimaced–he was standing, but he didn’t look like he was going to attack again in a hurry. The crowd roared their one-sided approval of Huld standing up, but Ryn

Previously on Saga of the Jewels… The life of seventeen-year-old RYN, bookish son of a wealthy landowner, changes forever when his hometown is destroyed by the EMPIRE and everyone he has ever known is killed. Ryn discovers that the Empire are seeking TWELVE PRIMEVAL JEWELS which grant the power to manipulate different elements, and that his father had been hiding the FIRE RUBY. He sets out to take revenge on the Imperial General who killed his family and retrieve the Fire Ruby, and along the way meets NUTHEA the lightning-slinging princess, SAGAR the swaggering skypirate, ELRANN the tomboy engineer, CID the wizened old healer, and VISH the poppy-seed-addicted bounty hunter. Together the companions decide to find all of the Jewels in order to stop the EMPEROR from finding them first and taking over the world. They have thus far succeeded in retrieving the Fire Ruby, borne by Ryn, and the Lightning Crystal, borne by Nuthea. They have now come to the land of FARR where they intend to compete in a hand-to-hand fighting tournament in order to attempt to win its prize, the EARTH EMERALD… EPISODE FORTY-THREE: SEMI-FINAL TWO An empty, grey void sat at the centre of Sagar’s stomach. His loins, which had recently been so awake and alive, now ached dully. The wind had gone out of his sails, the air from his blimp, the swagger from his strut. What’s the point? What’s the point of any of this? He had landed a kiss on a woman. A real kiss. And on a real woman! And it had been returned. A real connection. He could still practically taste her soft lips on his own, slightly salty from sweat, could still remember how they had parted and stirred in response to his. But he had thrown that all away, as quickly as he had chanced upon it. He had broken their kiss and literally thrown the woman out of the arena, all in an effort to win a shiny green rock he wasn’t interested in anyway. Of course, he did have his reputation to think of, and it wasn’t like the great Captain Sagar, Scourge of the Imfisi skies, could have let himself lose a fighting match to a woman... But still… A real kiss. He had run after her straight afterwards to try to apologise and talk to her some more, and caught up with her in the dugout, managing to catch her by the hand. She spun to face him, all well-defined lines and short dark hair, and he was hit by her beauty again. Her cheeks were glistening, though recently dabbed–she had been crying. “Look, Hiuna,” he said, painfully conscious of the other quarter-finalists in the enclosed earthen chamber–the baldy, another shorter Farrian, and some Frikian woman, “I’m really…sorry. I shouldn’t have taken advantage of you and finished the match like that. Please accept my apology.” He could barely believe his own ears, but he meant every word of it. He looked into her eyes, green like new life. “I feel like we had a connection, and I can see that I’ve upset you.” Hiuna yanked her hand out of his grasp. “I’m not upset because you took advantage of me, you chump!” she snapped. “I’m upset because I lost the match! My whole life I’ve been trying to prove myself in the face of men like you, and the moment I get my chance to do so, you go and do that and hit me out of bounds! Argh! Don’t come after me!” She turned to leave, but Sagar grabbed her and again. “Hiuna, please–” “Get off me!” the Farrian woman shouted, and palm-punched him in the chest with her spare hand, pulling the other one free in the process. Sagar landed on his arse with a thump. He watched Hiuna running off out of the dugout’s far exit. Huld was staring at him. “What are you looking at, baldy?” he said. * A moving pillar of stone smacked upwards into Sagar. He was knocked backwards and into the air with a painful jolt. As he sailed through the air, he realised that had been so distracted and lost in his memory that he had completely missed the announcer calling the start of the match and that the baldy had whacked him with an earth attack and was going to have hit him out of bounds in one strike. He summoned the wind, and powerful currents caught him, then held him in place in the air as he held out his arms, levitating weightlessly. The crowd cooed with surprised wonder. He lapped it up. Might as well give them a good show, he thought. Though the truth was, he didn’t care about this stupid tournament anymore. What he cared about was getting Hiuna to accept his apology, and he was pissed off that she hadn’t, mainly at himself. Baldy was looking up at him from the arena floor, chunky brow wrinkled, barefoot and green-robed, still with his hands held out in a ridiculous pose from having launched his earth attack. Might as well channel my anger somewhere, Sagar thought. Keeping part of his concentration on the air currents cushioning him in the air, Sagar thrust his palms forwards and shouted “Windaaaaaaaaarrrraahh!” A gale-blast of air wooshed forwards from his hands, hard as a hurricane. The baldy set one foot in front of the other and raised his arms above his face, crossing them and making fists to shield himself from the wind in a defensive stance. He even made some of the stone of the arena floor rise up and secure itself in two moulds around his feet to hold himself in place. Behind him, the audience members in the path of the gale screamed. The ones at the front clutched the wooden barrier to avoid being blown away. But they didn’t have anything to worry about–they were only getting the blow-back; Sagar was focusing the brunt of the attack on Huld. On Huld, who remained completely still and unmoved by the wind. It was as though he might not have even bothered taking his defensive stance at all. Well, the old timer wasn’t lying then, Sagar thought. Looks like my wind powers are completely ineffective against the element of earth. But he had known that much from that stupid temple. It didn’t matter. He hadn’t expected the attack to do anything anyway. Sagar leaned forward, dipping himself into the massive gale that he was directing at Huld. At the same time, he ceased the pressure from the gusts that had been keeping him up in the air, and instead changed their course to push him forwards, launching him even faster into his own wind attack. The gale caught him and he rode it, his hair and the loose parts of his shirt flapping around him. The exhilarating sensation of weightlessness took him, for a moment replacing even the dull ache for Hiuna, as he flew straight at Huld. He came in fast, stretching out both his arms in front of him for a double-fisted-punch. He smashed into Huld’s stomach, below the monk’s upraised arms… …and glanced off him, hitting the arena floor on his side and rolling over a few times. He came up. The gale having ceased, Huld dropped his defensive posture and broke his stone-shackles, then began to walk towards Sagar. Kufe it. The baldy was tough. Of course Sagar had known that too, but he hadn’t realised just how tough. He hadn’t had occasion to hit him before now. He called the wind, setting up another vicious gale to whip at Huld. The monk put one open hand up to shield his eyes, but he kept on walking. At least the wind served to distract him somewhat. This time Sagar ran at him, using the gale to lend him speed, but instead of rushing in head-on, when he was a few paces away he kicked off from the floor and sprang to the right, then jumped back towards the monk with a flanking side-kick. Huld’s hand snapped out and caught Sagar’s leg in mid-air, fingers constricting around it tightly. Uh-oh. The monk twisted, and twirled Sagar in a circle around him once, twice, thrice, several times, getting faster and faster. The audience members became increasingly blurry. Then Huld let go and threw Sagar out of the arena. Weightlessness took him again. He soared through the air, over the audience, who craned their heads up to track him. He was going to land among them, well out of bounds. Well, at least he would have if he hadn’t been able to fly. He summoned the wind again and used it to catch him, then divert his course, sending him flying back head-first towards Huld. A calm smile on the monk’s face. No surprise, no shock or awe or frustration or even a defensive stance this time. Just a calm smile. Arrogant kufer. Before he made impact with the monk, Sagar dived early, instead making impact with the arena floor with his two outstretched hands. His arms bent, and he flipped over and pushed himself off the floor at an angle, launching himself at Huld feet-first in a double-handstand-kick. The monk stepped out of the way and punched Sagar in the stomach. He smacked against the floor on his front. Ouch. His head rang. He rolled over onto his back, then froze as the monk’s massive bare foot appeared above him, about to stamp down. He rolled again, with the wind, to dodge out of the way as Huld’s foot crashed down to the ground, sending a shockwave through the stone floor that jolted Sagar as he rolled. He leapt up to his feet and staggered backwards the edge of the arena. The monk just watched him carefully. “Damn you!” Sagar yelled at him, furious at his immovability. The skypirate started to run again, calling the wind to lend him speed, not straight at the baldy this time, but round him, in a wide circle around the perimeter of the arena. He ran faster and faster, keeping his wind projection up against his back, and sent random gusts of air at Huld, flinging them out with his hand at erratic intervals. The monk didn’t even bother rotating to watch him. He just stood there in the centre of the arena, and on each pass Sagar glimpsed that same infuriating, calm smile. Sagar kicked off the floor, darting inwards at Huld from behind, rushing along the ground with the wind. He landed a right-handed punch in the small of the baldy’s back. This time monk didn’t even move. Sagar howled with rage and threw a barrage of

Previously on Saga of the Jewels… The life of seventeen-year-old RYN, bookish son of a wealthy landowner, changes forever when his hometown is destroyed by the EMPIRE and everyone he has ever known is killed. Ryn discovers that the Empire are seeking TWELVE PRIMEVAL JEWELS which grant the power to manipulate different elements, and that his father had been hiding the FIRE RUBY. He sets out to take revenge on the Imperial General who killed his family and retrieve the Fire Ruby, and along the way meets NUTHEA the lightning-slinging princess, SAGAR the swaggering skypirate, ELRANN the tomboy engineer, CID the wizened old healer, VISH the poppy-seed-addicted assassin, RISS the spirit-summoning girl, and QUEL the water-projecting bard. Together the adventurers decide to find all of the Jewels in order to stop the evil EMPEROR from finding them first and taking over the world. They have thus far succeeded in retrieving the Fire Ruby, borne by Ryn, and the Lightning Crystal, borne by Nuthea. They have now come to the land of FARR where they are competing in a hand-to-hand fighting tournament in order to attempt to win its grand prize, the EARTH EMERALD… EPISODE FORTY-TWO: THE TOURNAMENT: SEMI-FINAL ONE “Alright, team huddle time,” Nuthea said when she had got everyone assembled in the dugout. The tournament officials didn’t seem to mind that they were congregating in the stuffy underground chamber even though they weren’t technically all combatants. The party formed up, linking arms and making a face-to-face circle. Though the newcomers hesitated at first they got the idea easily enough, even if Cid and Elrann had to stoop slightly to fit Riss in. “Right,” said Nuthea. She needed to be quick, as after Cid had healed Huld the Governor had said they had five minutes before the next match. “Let’s review how things stand: Ryn, Captain Sagar, and Shadowfinger Vish all won your Quarter-Final matches–well done!” Ryn nodded. “Thanks.” Sagar grunted the barest acknowledgement. He appeared to be sulking about something. Vish didn’t say anything. Nuthea suppressed a sigh. “Grandfather Cid will heal all of you too so that you’re ready to fight again, since the Tournament is going to be carrying on straight away.” “Why did the Governor change his mind on that?” asked Ryn, wasting time. “I’m not sure. Probably something to do with the change in weather. That has gone in our favour.” “Yeah, what’s the deal with that?” said Elrann. “Clear skies all day, and now all of a sudden it looks like it’s going to pour.” She looked over at Quel. “You have water powers, right, music-man? Are you something to do with this?” Quel shook his head, the blue hair of his fringe quivering. “No, Mistress Elrann; it has nothing to do with me. The Sapphire-touched can manipulate water in gaseous and solid as well as liquid form, true, but it would take quite a lot of us to influence the course of an entire weather system, and I am just one man.” “Never mind that now,” said Nuthea, eager to move the discussion on. “What’s important is that the Governor has decided that the tournament can conclude today. Now, the two semi-finals will be Ryn against Shadowfinger Vish and Captain Sagar against Brother Huld. Sagar against Huld is straightforward enough, as we know who we want to win–” “Do you think you can take him, Sagar?” Ryn asked, cutting Nuthea off. “Hm?” said Sagar, attention coming back from wherever it had been. “Oh, yeah, you had better damn well bet I can take him. I’m not afraid of Baldy.” “You are aware, aren’t you,” Grandfather Cid said before Nuthea could get another word in, “that the element of wind is completely ineffectual against the element of earth, in combat terms?” Sagar blew the air out through his nostrils. “Yeah, I know, old timer. But that don’t mean I can’t use my powers to my advantage. Just you watch. I’ll beat him without blowing him over.” “If you’re sure…” said Cid. “Anyway,” said Nuthea, “what is more pressing for us to talk about is Ryn and Shadowfinger Vish’s match, since both of you are in our party.” “What’s there to talk about?” said Sagar. “The scumsucker is the better fighter. You should just let him win,” he said to Ryn, “and be done with it.” “Hey!” said Ryn, and the air in the huddle got a little warmer. “Shut up, Sagar! Vish may have been fighting longer, but I have fire magic!” “Well it’s not like it matters anyway,” Sagar said, “as I’m just going to thrash whichever one of you goes through in the Final in any case.” “Shadowfinger Vish,” Nuthea said, before Ryn could rise any further to Sagar’s posturing, “what do you think is the best course of action?” Vish regarded her coolly above his face covering. “It makes no difference to me, girl. Tell me what you want me to do, and I will do it. I will win this battle, I will lose this battle, I will stay out of the Final, I will go into the Final–whichever. All I care about is that you give me some more poppy when this is done. As long as you do that, I will do whatever you want.” Nuthea saw Cid hold himself back from saying something. “Okay…” she said. She knew that Vish was by far the better fighter as Sagar had said. But she didn’t want to hurt Ryn’s feelings. “What would you rather do, Ryn?” “Well, I think that–” “People of Farr!” came the shout of the tournament announcer from outside all of a sudden. “For your first semi-final, I give you Ryn of Efstan versus Vish of Aibar!” “Was that really five minutes?!” said Ryn. “We haven’t—” “There’s no time!” Nuthea said, breaking the huddle. “Quick, get out there into the arena, both of you! I’m sure you’ll figure it out! Er, good luck!” She ushered Ryn and Vish off in the direction of the entry tunnel., As Ryn looked briefly over his shoulder at her before walking out Nuthea ignored the twinge of guilt in her chest. Neither of them moved. Vish just stood there in his black uniform and head covering, eyes bleary and bloodshot. He didn’t even bother adopting a fighting posture. A memory flared unbidden in Ryn’s mind of the first time he had fought Vish. How the Shadowfinger had suddenly fallen upon him and the others in the woods outside Ast, how he had been vicious, methodical and deadly, in the end only stopped by an unexpected pistol-shot from Elrann. Did Ryn really have any kind of chance in a contest of hand-to-hand combat against such a skilled and highly trained fighter as Vish? Probably not, no; not even if I have trained hard and gotten a lot better at fighting since then. But Ryn did have something which Vish didn’t. Damn him if he was going to use it straight away though. “Begin!” shouted the announcer. Ryn ran at Vish, crossing the arena floor in a matter of moments, and punched him in the face. To his surprise the punch connected, the impact flashing across Ryn’s knuckles, and Vish’s head snapped back. The Shadowfinger took a couple of steps backwards, then steadied himself. Huh? Nobody in the audience cheered or made any kind of noise. They were as confused as Ryn. Investigating, he stepped forwards and kicked the Shadowfinger in the chest with his right foot, using a kick that Vish himself had taught him. Vish grunted, taking the force of the blow, and stepped back a few more paces. Ryn followed through with a series of punches that finished with an elbow strike, using another sequence that Vish had taught him. Every blow hit home. The Shadowfinger took the full force of each one, shuffling backwards and coming to a halt a couple of paces away. “What are you doing?” Ryn whispered to the Shadowfinger, hoping that nobody else would be able to hear. “What do you mean, ‘what am I doing’?’” Vish replied, having the courtesy to keep his voice low too. “Why aren’t you fighting me properly?” The Shadowfinger shrugged. “You didn’t say what you wanted me to do yet.” “I want you to fight me!” Ryn hissed. The Shadowfinger raised a dark eyebrow. “You do? Are you sure?” “Yes! Don’t go easy on me just because we know each other! That won’t impress anybody, and it might get us disqualified for cheating!” The other eyebrow raised. “You are really sure?” “Yes!” “Alright then.” Ryn took two steps forward and swung a right hook at Vish. The Shadowfinger sidestepped as easily as if he was performing the learned steps of a dance. And then his leg lashed out. Ryn lifted up into the air, came down, hit the ground on his back and rolled over a few times. Then he felt the pain. He curled up, clutching his stomach, which ached horribly where Vish had kicked him. Now the crowd cheered. The noise of it filled his ears, hurting him even more than the kick had. Why were they cheering for Vish, and not him? Ryn supposed that Vish’s attack had had a bit more of an effect than his own… “One!” called the announcer, beginning the count. Ryn pressed his hands to the arena floor and shakily pushed himself up onto his feet, stomach still smarting. Vish was standing a long way away. He had kicked Ryn so hard that he had flown across half the arena. And yet, he sensed that the Shadowfinger had still held something back. Vish could have finished this match in one blow had he wanted to, like he had done in his last match. Fire rose in Ryn’s chest, but he willed it down and breathed out, letting the energy dissipate through his nostrils. He wouldn’t resort to it yet. He had more pride than that. He ran at Vish again, this time arriving with a jumping kick–another move the Shadowfinger had taught him. Vish stepped lazily out of the way and countered with a punch to Ryn’s chest, quick and precise as a pistol-shot. This time Ryn hit the arena floor so hard that he bounced and flipped over, landing face down and seeing stone. Searing pain

Previously on Saga of the Jewels… The life of seventeen-year-old RYN, bookish son of a wealthy landowner, changes forever when his hometown is destroyed by the EMPIRE and everyone he has ever known is killed. Ryn discovers that the Empire are seeking TWELVE PRIMEVAL JEWELS which grant the power to manipulate different elements, and that his father had been hiding the FIRE RUBY. He sets out to take revenge on the Imperial General who killed his family and retrieve the Fire Ruby, and along the way meets NUTHEA the lightning-slinging princess, SAGAR the swaggering skypirate, ELRANN the tomboy engineer, CID the wizened old healer, and VISH the poppy-seed-addicted bounty hunter. Together the companions decide to find all of the Jewels in order to stop the EMPEROR from finding them first and taking over the world. They have thus far succeeded in retrieving the Fire Ruby, borne by Ryn, and the Lightning Crystal, borne by Nuthea. They have now come to the land of FARR where they intend to compete in a hand-to-hand fighting tournament in order to attempt to win its prize, the EARTH EMERALD. However, the Farrian fighting-monk, HULD, has also entered, and has progressed to the quarter finals too… EPISODE FORTY-ONE: THE TOURNAMENT: QUARTER FINAL FOUR: HULD OF FARR VS. QENDRA OF FRIKIA The brown-stone arena tiles warmed Huld’s bare feet. The tiles had been baking in the sun all day, which was still bright and hot this afternoon, though strangely a clump of dark clouds had formed in one corner of the sky. It’s not time for the rainy-season to arrive yet, is it? No, of course not. He dismissed the thought. Underneath the mostly-clear sky, thousands of his fellow Farrians stood watching around Tenkachi’s arena, so many that he couldn’t see beyond them. Boys with toothy, eager smiles plastered on their faces. Men with stony-serious frowns and folded arms, unmoving as boulders. Girls staring keenly, biting their nails or with both hands clasped together in front of their mouths like they were praying. Women murmuring silently or anxiously hopping from foot to foot. Wriggling babes in arms. Statuesque elderly. And all the ages in between. I must not let them down. All of the native Farrians who had competed in the Tournament’s Quarter Finals thus far had lost. Although, to be fair, one had been a woman, which was Not Correct, and one had been a dishonourable exhibitionist fool–not a soldier-monk trained in one of the religious fighting-schools of Eto like Huld had been, but a sacrilegious free agent who made money out of his fighting. And, also to be fair, none of those losses mattered that much, anyway. This was Huld’s tournament to win. That he won his matches, and won the whole thing, and won the prize for Farr, was all that really mattered. Huld needed to win this tournament, not only to claim the Earth Emerald, but also for the honour of his country–to show that the Farrians were the strongest, the greatest, the supreme people of Mid. That was what the Governor had told him, and what he knew to be true. “Are you ready?” Huld came back to the present with a jolt. The tournament announcer had asked him a question from where he stood at the side of the arena. The monk was vaguely aware that the announcer had asked him this question once already, but he had been lost for a moment in a rare drifting of focus. He looked over at his opponent standing opposite him. A tall, dark-skinned Frikian woman with a curiously shaved head, except for an asymmetric fringe of jet-black hair that on one side curved around to her left ear and on the other came down over her right eye. She wore a garment made of the skin of some spotted animal, which clung to her slim body, tied at the waist with a rope belt, leaving her smooth arms and legs bare. She winked at him. Another woman. Most strange. What were these tournaments coming to, that two women had made it into the Quarter Finals? And this one was not even a fellow Farrian, but a filthy foreigner as well! It was practically an insult for him to even have to fight her. Huld nodded. “I am ready,” he said levelly. “Alright…” said the announcer. “Then……BEGIN!” Huld dropped his weight into chocobo stance, bending his knees and resting his fists at his hips, taking a defensive poise to see how the Frikian would open. The Frikian did nothing at all. She just stood there watching him, a wry little smile creeping out from behind the overhanging half of her fringe. Then, slowly, deliberately, exaggerating the movements painstakingly, she lowered herself into chocobo stance too, still smiling. A muscle in Huld’s jaw twitched. Does she mean to mock me? She can’t know the Farrian arts. No master would allow a Frikian to train with him, let alone a woman… She must be copying me… Carefully, gaze still trained on the woman, Huld extended his fingers and pinched them together against his thumbs, putting a foot forward and bringing his hands up in front of him, one close to his chest, the other stretched further out. Crane stance. An investigative stance. In front of him, the woman did exactly the same, mirroring his movements exactly. Huld kept the irritation out of his expression. So she was copying him. Well, that was having some success in baiting him, he reluctantly acknowledged, but it would only get her so far. She couldn’t mirror his every move. Not in the heat of battle. But then why is she still smiling? He took a step forwards, towards her, and the woman stepped forwards too. He took a few more steps, and the woman matched him exactly, the gap between them closing by degrees, about eight paces now. He took another step, but this time he walked diagonally right, no longer approaching her head-on but moving to one side, to flank her. This time the woman moved to her own diagonal right, Huld’s left, keeping her mirror image of his movements so that the size of the gap between them stayed the same. Huld continued to strafe to his right, and Qendra of Frikia did the same, so that they circled one another across the stone tiles of the arena. As they did, Huld watched her lithe, toned limbs closely, looking for some opening or sign of weakness. The thing was, Huld noticed with a start that nearly made him misstep, the woman’s stance was perfect. She wasn’t just poorly copying his thousands-of-times-practiced poses and positions on the spot, apparently. Her arms were held out at precisely the right lengths, her legs moving in precisely the right sequence, her torso tensed in precisely the right way, for crane stance. Maybe she has been trained by a Farrian? But if she had, why mess around with this mirroring game? Why not open with a distinctive attack of her own, or put up a more conventional defence and let him come to her instead? It was like she was playing a game of Check where she had decided just to mimic his every move. Enough contemplation, Huld thought. It’s time to put an end to this stage-play. He kicked off from the arena floor, launching himself at the Frikian with a crane-fisted strike from left to right aimed to hit the side of her head with the back of his hand. In the same instant, the Frikian sprang towards him with her own identical strike… …then at the last moment dropped her body, ducking under Huld’s blow. As he moved past her, she lashed out and up with her knee, catching him in the stomach. Huld doubled up, the wind knocked out of him, gasping at the sudden pain. The Frikian drew her leg back, then flicked it around her off-side in a vicious roundhouse aimed at Huld’s face. He ducked the kick, thrust his legs back to press himself flat against the arena floor, then rolled away rapidly, spinning over several times before coming up into dragon stance, one fist held back, one up in front of him with two bent fingers. Opposite him, the Frikian already stood in exactly the same stance a few paces away. “What game are you playing?!” Huld yelled at her, ignoring the calls of the crowd, angry at what the Frikian woman was doing, angry that she had landed the first blow, angry that she had broken his composure–already. “How are you mirroring my movements so perfectly?” That irritating smile still mocked him. Her lips were cherry-red. “Well,” said the Frikian in a disturbingly confident and sensual voice, “that would be telling, wouldn’t it now?” Huld moved forwards in dragon stance. The woman did the same. Dragon stance, at least, Huld knew had been exported from Farr by some travelling masters who had prostituted themselves by selling ancient fighting techniques to filthy foreigners. He had seen the fireboy use it earlier in his short-lived match against that Morekemian. But it wasn’t just that the Frikian used dragon stance—she was still mirroring his every movement with complete precision. This time when he got close to her, he feinted with the beginning of a simple front-kick, then quickly brought his foot back down and flung out his left hand in a thrusting punch instead. The Frikian copied him exactly, right down to the feint, and flung out the start of the same punch, but then turned it into a feint of her own, suddenly slipping beneath his strike, spinning as she did so in order to throw out a fast-moving low sweep kick. This time Huld was ready for it. He jumped the sweep, then came down with a palm-thrust. The woman backed away, quick as a snake, then dodged his follow-up punch, and the one after that as well. She flipped backwards heels-over-head, and Huld thought he had her on the run, but as she turned over in the air her foot flashed out and caught him in the face. He staggered backwards, blinking away his surprise, then blocked every strike of her subsequent assault with his hands. She had underestimated his reaction speed. He made to grab her arm, missed, but when she pulled away in alarm he stepped up and followed through with an almighty punch from his other hand, hitting her squar

Previously on Saga of the Jewels… The life of seventeen-year-old RYN, bookish son of a wealthy landowner, changes forever when his hometown is destroyed by the EMPIRE and everyone he has ever known is killed. Ryn discovers that the Empire are seeking TWELVE PRIMEVAL JEWELS which grant the power to manipulate different elements, and that his father had been hiding the FIRE RUBY. He sets out to take revenge on the Imperial General who killed his family and retrieve the Fire Ruby, and along the way meets NUTHEA the lightning-slinging princess, SAGAR the swaggering skypirate, ELRANN the tomboy engineer, CID the wizened old healer, and VISH the poppy-seed-addicted assassin. Together the companions decide to find all of the Jewels in order to stop the EMPEROR from finding them first and taking over the world. They have thus far succeeded in retrieving the Fire Ruby, borne by Ryn, and the Lightning Crystal, borne by Nuthea. They have now come to the land of FARR where they are competing in a hand-to-hand fighting tournament in order to attempt to win its grand prize, the EARTH EMERALD… EPISODE 40: THE TOURNAMENT: QUARTER-FINAL THREE: VISH OF AIBAR VS. LI OF FARR Cid watched the plump man in green robes, the tournament announcer, stride to the centre of the arena, hold up his hands, and shout to the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Quarter Final Three! Vish of Aibar versus Li of Farr!” The crowd cheered its deafening approval as the announcer walked back to the edge of the arena to referee the match. I don’t see why they really have to announce what country each fighter is from, Cid thought, not for the first time that day. It just encourages prejudice. The Farrians all already know who their own people are and who to cheer for… Just then a man appeared from out of the dugout tunnel, literally backflipping his way up the short path that led to the arena, where he executed a particularly massive spring from his hands, twisted around several times in the air in a way that Cid couldn’t follow, and landed with both his hands held out in a fighting stance, yelling “HYAAAAAAA!” at the top of his lungs. The noise from the crowd grew even more deafening. This must be Li of Farr, thought Cid. A medium-height, tanned Farrian in black trousers but with bare feet and chest, muscles honed to hard lines, and a bowl of short-cropped black hair. The audience clearly know him already. They had been angry at the defeat of the Farrian woman by Sagar in the previous match, but also somewhat confused that she had been a woman, and this was more familiar territory: a male Farrian martial-arts champion who knew how to perform for them. Little do they know, though, Cid thought, that young man Vish will be more than a match for him. Vish… Where was Vish, anyway? Li of Farr had finished his entry routine now and was standing over on one side of the arena awaiting his opponent. Moments passed. The crowd waited quietly, with baited breath. After a while, Li of Farr looked from the dugout to the announcer, cocked his head, and raised a quizzical eyebrow. The announcer shrugged, then shouted in the direction of the dugout, “I repeat, Vish of Aibar!” A pause. Cid could have sworn he heard the sound of crickets chirping somewhere. “Ha!” laughed Li of Farr all of a sudden, spinning around to address the section of the crowd nearest to him. “Stupid foreigner! He must be too afraid to even come out to fight me! Hahaha!” The crowd broke out into laughter too, mimicking the fighter. A forced, chortling, superior sort of laughter. Uh-oh, thought Cid. Young lady Elrann turned to him where she stood alongside. “Er, pops, where’s bountyhunterman got to?” “Um…” said Cid, “I thought he was in the dugout with the other tournament finalists…” “But did ya actually see him go down there with farmboy and pirateman?” “Um…” Cid searched his memory, from which Vish was conspicuously absent. “Actually, I don’t remember seeing him, not as such, no…” His heart sank. He looked past Elrann to the two newcomers, the hooded bard Quel and green-haired girl Riss. “Did either of you see our Shadowfinger companion come to the arena this morning?” Riss shook her head, tight-lipped and wide-eyed as usual. Quel said from within his hood, “Can’t say I did, Master Cid. Apologies.” “Ah,” said Cid. “Poodoo.” “Where’s princess-girl gone?” said Elrann. “Can we ask her?” “She went with young man Ryn to talk to the Governor about something. I don’t know how we could all have missed Vish this morning... He must still be sleeping off his poppy hit from last night.” Or finding himself some more, Cid added in his head. Meanwhile Li of Farr had begun to prance around the arena floor performing a sequence of flashy fighting moves for the entertainment of the crowd while making more of those ridiculous high-pitched noises. He executed a series of three rapid kicks at nothing with the same foot in quick succession, leapt, turned over horizontally three times in the air, and came down into a series of punches, ending with an almighty quivering backhand strike as he yelled “HWAAAAHH!” The audience lapped it up, cheering and clapping. “It appears that young man Vish may have to end up forfeiting this round…” Cid said quietly. Damn. He was our best chance. “But isn’t bountyhunterman, like, our best chance of winning this tournament thing and getting the Earth Emerald?” said Elrann, echoing his thoughts. “Yes. If he doesn’t show up, we shall just have to hope that young men Ryn and Sagar continue to hold their own in the fighting…” Cid picked at his beard. Sagar and Ryn had gotten lucky so far, but he wasn’t sure whether they would continue to do so as the Finals progressed. Yes, they had elemental projection, but they weren’t the methodical, calculating, highly trained fighter that Vish was. When he wasn’t laid out from a damn poppy hit. If only he hadn’t relapsed. If only he had gotten further in his recovery… “Vish of Aibar,” the tournament announcer was calling one more time in the direction of the dugout, “if you do not present yourself for combat now then you will be forced to forfeit this match and your place in this tournament! I will give you to the count of ten: One!” A figure dressed all in black stumbled out of the entry tunnel. “Alright, alright, I am here,” grumbled Vish in his deep voice. He staggered slowly up to the arena, one hand clutching the top of his head. “No need for me to forfeit. I am just a bit late; that is all.” Cid’s eyebrows rose. “Phew, there he is,” said Elrann. But Cid didn’t know whether to be relieved or not. The crowd had quietened again. Apparently they didn’t know what to make of this black-clad latecomer. Vish took his place on the opposite side of the arena from Li and stood facing him, swaying slightly on his feet, his hand still holding his head. “Alright then…” said the announcer from the side of the arena, unable to keep the uncertainty from his voice. “Now that you are both here…BEGIN!” “What’s the matter, foreigner?” Li called out at once, voice rising and falling in mockery. “Were you too afraid to meet me in combat? Lost your nerve, did you?” The crowd chuckled. “Well, I don’t blame you!” called Li, spurred on by their approval. “I would be scared to fight me too!” The crowd laughed. Li punched the air in his immediate vicinity a few more times, then threw in a few more kicks and a knee-thrust, displaying his skill now not just for the crowd but for Vish. He ended with a straight air-punch which left his arm fully extended and his fist pointed in Vish’s direction. He rotated his fist so that his thumb faced upwards, opened his hand, and made a couple of ‘come here’ motions at Vish, beckoning him to attack. “Come at me!” Li of Farr challenged. “Oh, just get on with it, would you?” said Vish, loud enough for everyone to hear. “I had a rough one last night. I have a splitting headache and I just want to get this over with.” Li’s cocky smile transfigured into a furious scowl. “How dare you insult me?” he said, dropping out of his pose. “Don’t you know who I am? I am the great Li of Farr! I have won twelve Farrian Fighting Tournament titles! I am a Grand Master of the ancient fighting arts! My students are feared and respected throughout the whole of Mid!” “I really could not care any less,” hissed Vish through gritted teeth. “I would rather that you just hurry up and get on with this fight, so we can finish it.” Li’s eyes bulged. The crowd had stopped laughing. “Insolent foreigner!” Li screeched. “Fine! Have it your way! I will end this contest in one blow!” He pelted across the arena towards Vish with tremendous speed, screaming his head off as he went, “YAAAAAAAAAH!” He arrived at Vish with a humongous backhanded punch–the same one which he had shown off earlier. Vish caught Li’s fist with one hand, stopping it in place in front of his head, at the same time punching him in the chest with his other hand, so hard it made an audible bang like metal on metal even though it was just a fist on a chest. Flecks of spittle and blood came out of Li’s surprised mouth. The Shadowfinger let go of Li’s fist, and the martial artist fell back onto the ground immediately, eyes unfocused with shock. He let out a quiet little whimpering sound, then lost consciousness and lay still, his eyes closing. Vish walked past him, rubbing the hand that he had punched Li with, back towards the dugout. For a moment everyone just looked on in silence, almost as stunned as Li had been, Cid included, only the sound of Vish’s footsteps carrying across the arena. Then the announcer called out “One!”, remembering the tournament rules. “Don’t waste your breath,” Vish called back over his shoulder as he reached the edge

Previously on Saga of the Jewels… The life of seventeen-year-old RYN, bookish son of a wealthy landowner, changes forever when his hometown is destroyed by the EMPIRE and everyone he has ever known is killed. Ryn discovers that the Empire are seeking TWELVE PRIMEVAL JEWELS which grant the power to manipulate different elements, and that his father had been hiding the FIRE RUBY. He sets out to take revenge on the Imperial General who killed his family and retrieve the Fire Ruby, and along the way meets NUTHEA the lightning-slinging princess, SAGAR the swaggering skypirate, ELRANN the tomboy engineer, CID the wizened old healer, and VISH the poppy-seed-addicted bounty hunter. Together the companions decide to find all of the Jewels in order to stop the EMPEROR from finding them first and taking over the world. They have thus far succeeded in retrieving the Fire Ruby, borne by Ryn, and the Lightning Crystal, borne by Nuthea. They have now come to the land of FARR where they intend to compete in a hand-to-hand fighting tournament in order to attempt to win its prize, the EARTH EMERALD… EPISODE THIRTY-NINE: THE TOURNAMENT: QUARTER FINAL TWO: SAGAR OF IMFIS VS. HIUNA OF FARR Ten minutes earlier. Sagar strode out of the dugout shoulder to shoulder with his opponent. He felt almost naked without his coat and swords, but his shirt and trousers would have to do. As they reached the open air of the little concourse that led from the tunnel mouth to the stone tiles of the arena, people must have spotted them, because a wave of cheers and applause from the thousands-strong Farrian crowd swelled to greet them… …then subsided again to about half its original volume, breaking into a buzz of confused chatter. No wonder, Sagar thought as he stepped onto the arena floor and began to make his way over to one side of it. I’m not a Farrian, after all; I’m another ‘filthy foreigner’ you weren’t expecting–just like the pup was. And his opponent was a Farrian–but she was also a woman. As far as Sagar understood, women did not normally become monks, or fight, in Farrian culture, as was quite right and proper. How this woman had managed to progress to the quarter finals, he had no idea. Maybe she had had a free pass like him, Ryn and Vish for some reason. He regarded her where she took her place now opposite him about fifteen paces away on the other side of the arena, standing in a simple stance with two fists bunched and knuckles-down on either side of the top of her hips. She wore a leaf-green robe liked the baldies did, tied with an earth-brown sash at her waist. Her build was slight and slender. Like all Farrian women she had dark hair, except it was cut short like a Dokanese man’s. Only the femininity of her cheekbones betrayed her as a woman, but had you not been told you might be forgiven for mistaking her for a man. Why do I always get paired up with these women who act like men? Sagar thought. It was like someone was trying to teach him something. At least hopefully this one won’t also turn out to be my long-lost sister. He had begrudgingly learned not to underestimate women who looked a bit like men from his experience with Elrann. But Elrann had so far only beaten men in drinking competitions (probably by cheating) and only been able to make a laughing stock of him when she had her firearms at her disposal. Elrann had never fought him hand-to-hand, and Sagar knew that if she ever did, he would win. Just like he was going to win in this fight against this Farrian woman. Because if there was one thing that growing up on his father’s skyship had taught him, it was how to fight, with a sword–or without one. He hadn’t needed the scumsucker’s ridiculous ‘training’. So I’m sorry, little Farrian girl, he thought, still regarding her with his exposed eye, but there’s not going to be any glory, or prize money, or Jewels for you today. Those belong to me. “Ready?” the announcer said to him. Sagar nodded, smiling. His opponent did the same. “Then…...FIGHT!” The announcer shouted the word so loud it rang out over the crowd, then immediately rushed off to the sand that bordered the side of the arena to get out of the way. The woman standing across from Sagar pointed a finger at him and called out in a loud, theatrical, somewhat angry voice: “Sagar of Imfis! My name is Hiuna of Farr, and I am going to win this tournament! My whole life I have sought to prove my right to fight alongside men, and in this tournament I am going to do just that, first by defeating you, Sagar of Imfis!” Sagar winced at the repetition of his name. Did she have to underscore that, when he was a man wanted by the Empire? The woman, ‘Hiuna’, had shouted loud enough for the whole audience to hear. They went quiet in the wake of her strange announcement, tensing to see what would happen next. “Er…okay?” Sagar said at a normal volume. Who did she think she was to challenge him, a fearsome pirate skycaptain? “Show me what you’ve got, then,” he invited, beckoning with a finger. And then Hiuna was sprinting straight at him. “HA!” She gave an aggressive yell, then leapt into the air, aiming a flying side-on kick at Sagar’s chest. He got his hand up in time to deflect it as he stepped to one side out of the way, but boy did it hit hard as it glanced off his palm, sending a ripple of shock down his arm. Hiuna landed, then immediately sprang back up and launched a barrage of punches at him. High. High. Low. Middle. High. Sagar blocked or dodged all of them, then jumped backwards to put some space in between him and the woman and buy himself some more time. But she didn’t give him any. She ran forward at once, closing the gap, came in with another kick, another flurry of punches, more kicks. Sagar blocked them all, tendons tightening in his neck from the effort. Hiuna came out of a roundhouse kick and continued rotating with her body, spinning around with a wicked surprise punch aimed at Sagar’s stomach. Time slowed. Sagar could see that he was going to be able to block the punch in time, but it was coming towards him with such force that the impact of it might just knock him backwards all the same…backwards and out of the arena, the perimeter of which Hiuna had driven him to with her barrage of strikes. His instincts activated. Just before the punch connected, Sagar summoned the wind. A localised gust of air rushed from the open palm with which he had been about to block the woman’s punch, so forcefully that it stopped her fist in mid-air, then pushed it–and her–backwards. Sagar stepped into the gust and drove his palm forwards to conceal his wind attack, connecting with Hiuna’s hand as it moved backwards and making it look as if he had somehow blocked her blow and followed through with a counter-strike in the same rapid movement. He extended his arm fully, and Hiuna went staggering back a few paces towards the centre of the arena, grunting, almost losing her footing and falling over. She regained her balance, then came back into a fighting stance, this time with her two fists held out in front of her ready to fend off whatever Sagar might throw at her next. But Sagar did not follow up with another attack…yet. He was trying to work out if he could win this without more obviously resorting to his wind power, or ‘projection’, or whatever the princess called it. She had pushed him to use it so soon. Much sooner than he had anticipated needing to use it in this tournament. The Farrian’s delicate face was still fixed in an angry frown of determination, but now her brows crinkled even further, betraying puzzlement. She knows something is amiss. “You have some skill!” Sagar called out so the nearby audience members would be able to hear, deciding to follow up with a verbal assault, “I’ll grant you that. Not bad, not bad at all, especially for a woman who wants to be a man!” A few snickers fluttered across the crowd, reaching Sagar’s keen ears. He needed to keep up this momentum. “But you’re still outmatched, I’m afraid!” he yelled, baiting her for all she was worth. “I’ll make quick work of you, woman!” “You got lucky, foreigner!” Hiuna shot back. Sweat beaded on her forehead. Good. “I almost had you beaten in ten strikes! You got a lucky hit in, somehow! I won’t let that happen again!” Pounce when they least expect it, rang a remembered voice in Sagar’s head. The voice of the man he hadn’t known was his father until it had been time for him to say goodbye. When they’re most riled up and ready, that’s when you get the jump on them. It supposedly applied to bedding, but also to fighting. Sagar bounded forward, coming on with a vicious right hook aimed at the woman’s head. She got her forearm up to block it, and he followed up with a left jab, which she smacked out of the way with her other hand. He kept the pressure up, bombarding her with more punches. She blocked three more, then danced out of the way of the next. Damn it, he thought as he kept up the barrage, unable to land a hit. She is skilled. And surprisingly strong. He wished that he could take off his eye patch to see with both eyes. He would have to resort to his other trick again. He counted one, two, three more useless punches, then suddenly crouched and spun, whipping out his leg like a dog flicking out its tail, bringing it around in a low, sweeping kick. As he did so he summoned the wind to assist him so that he spun round impossibly fast, his kick moving with the speed of a gale. A small whooshing noise followed his leg round. He felt the kick connect with the woman’s legs before he saw it happen. The back of his calf blossomed with brief impact as he swept her legs out from underneath her and she went over on her back, smacking against the stone with a satisfying slap. Sagar came up immediately and sprang forwards, aiming a gut-punch at her prone form. Before he landed

Previously on Saga of the Jewels… The life of seventeen-year-old RYN, bookish son of a wealthy landowner, changes forever when his hometown is destroyed by the EMPIRE and everyone he has ever known is killed. Ryn discovers that the Empire are seeking TWELVE PRIMEVAL JEWELS which grant the power to manipulate different elements, and that his father had been hiding the FIRE RUBY. He sets out to take revenge on the Imperial General who killed his family and retrieve the Fire Ruby, and along the way meets NUTHEA the lightning-slinging princess, SAGAR the swaggering skypirate, ELRANN the tomboy engineer, CID the wizened old healer, VISH the poppy-seed-addicted assassin, RISS the spirit-summoning girl, and QUEL the water-projecting bard. Together the adventurers decide to find all of the Jewels in order to stop the evil EMPEROR from finding them first and taking over the world. They have thus far succeeded in retrieving the Fire Ruby, borne by Ryn, and the Lightning Crystal, borne by Nuthea. They have now come to the land of FARR where they are competing in a hand-to-hand fighting tournament in order to attempt to win its grand prize, the EARTH EMERALD… EPISODE THIRTY-EIGHT: THE TOURNAMENT: QUARTER-FINAL ONE: RYN VS. ROGAR THE UNSURPASSABLE The crowd thronged and pressed against Nuthea. Even though she, Elrann, Cid and the two newcomers, Riss and Quel, had been given a place right at the front of it, next to the wooden barrier, she still felt hemmed-in. There were no seats for this spectacle, so they had to stand like everybody else. Behind and to either side of them, and in front of them on the other side of the flat stone squares of the arena, stood thousands of Farrians, and their children, and in some cases their animals–she had already spotted a cow, a cochobo, and several goats–going back as far as Nuthea could see, pushing up against one another and chattering. The entirety of Farr seemed to have turned out to watch this tournament. Nuthea caught a few sentences. “I heard Rogar made it through the heats,” said an enthusiastic young man somewhere just behind her. “That’d make sense,” said his friend. “He’s been dominating on the circuit recently.” “He’s my favourite to win.” “What about Li Ash-Tai?” “I don’t know if he’s even entered.” “If he has, he’s sure to take the prize. He’s beaten everyone on the circuit, more than once–including Rogar.” “He can’t have. Nobody’s beaten Rogar.” “I don’t know how any of them will be able to fight in this heat, really.” “True. These fights will be endurance tests as much as anything else.” They were right about that. The heat was sticky and cloying. Sweat ran down Nuthea’s arms and legs underneath her dress, making it stick to her skin. It never gets this hot in Manolia. She didn’t think that Ryn and Sagar would be used to this sort of heat either. Though perhaps Ryn would be able to handle it because of his fire-alignment. That gave her some hope. She looked up at the sky. An unbroken, bright blue canvas for the sun, except for in one place where a single white cloud about the size of half her hand drifted. One God, she prayed. Please help us. Please give us success today. Please help one of Ryn, or Sagar, or Vish to win this. She returned to watching the slabs of the arena floor. If only I had been able to enter, I could have won this with my lightning… In the end she had had to reveal to the others that she was blocked in her lightning in order to explain why she wasn’t entering. Elrann and Cid still hadn’t wanted to enter either, and neither of the two newcomers were keen, so they had ultimately had to forfeit one of their four assigned places in the quarter finals. The Governor had taken no issue whatsoever with this, and said that there would be plenty of Farrians able to fill the vacant eighth slot from the tournament heats. So they had reduced their chances of winning the tournament already. But had their chances ever been that great? Could any of the boys really win this? Vish, she thought. He should be able to cope in this sort of heat, given that he was from Aibar originally. The Shadowfinger was probably their best chance of winning this tournament, since he was the most proficient hand-to-hand fighter among them by a long way. True, he did not possess any elemental magic, though, so that could tip the balance in Ryn’s or Sagar’s favour, if they ended up using it. Of those two, Sagar was the more skilled fighter, and had been fighting with his gift for longer. However, some of the Farrians might have elemental projection as well now, from the Emerald. That could mean that Ryn would have the advantage, if he used his magic, what with earth-alignment being vulnerable to attacks from fire-alignment, as they’d found in the Earth Temple. But they didn’t want to use their magic unless they absolutely had to, as they didn’t want to make their location known to the Empire. So far they appeared to have gotten away with avoiding that, since the audience at the Manyiro play seemed to have thought that Ryn and Sagar’s powers were part of the show, though that had only happened last night. On the other hand, the Farrians were so skilled at hand-to-hand fighting that magic might not even come into it–in which case that brought her back full circle to Vish as their best chance. If Vish won, though, could they trust him to hand over the Jewel to the group for safekeeping? Could they really trust this former Shadowfinger whose life Ryn had spared, just because Grandfather Cid was supplying him with poppy, and supposedly helping him to ‘come off’ of it? It wasn’t as if he was even making much progress in doing that, given his own activities last night. Nuthea shook her head. Vish had proved his allegiance time and again on their journey, by fighting alongside them and stepping in to save their lives multiple times. Of course he could be trusted. Or at least, so she hoped… She lifted her eyes to the sky again. Oh, and One God, would you please un-silence me and give me back my lightning powers again? She sighed. What was the use? She had prayed this prayer many times, and it just didn’t seem to be being answered. Or at least, if it was being answered it wasn’t in the way that she wanted. Oh well. She would just have to keep praying it. That was all she could do. “Here we are,” said Cid at her side. “It’s starting.” Nuthea looked. From the mouth of a narrow tunnel built into the ground in front of the wooden barrier at the far side of the arena strode a thick-set man with a shaved head in the green garb of the Farrian fighting monks. As soon as he became visible the crowd roared with approval, a deafening wave of noise that almost knocked Nuthea over. The man walked to the centre of the square arena, smiling at the cheering and applause. He had a wide face and a mischievous smile. He made a few rotations, clapping and cheering himself and making raising gestures with his hands. The shouts of the crowd grew even louder. He was whipping them up into a frenzy. Then the man held up both hands, and miraculously the crowd stopped cheering all of a sudden and went quiet. An eerie hush fell over the arena, almost as disturbing as the noise had been. Nuthea could hear her heartbeat inside her head. A mosquito buzzed past her ear, thrumming briefly before flying away. “Fellow Farrians!” the monk bellowed, voice carrying over the crowd. “Welcome to the One Hundred and Twenty-First Fighting Tournament at Tenkachi!” The crowd began to cheer again, , but the announcer held up his hands once more, calming them. “Please!” he yelled. “Save your adulation for the combatants! Many qualifying bouts have been fought, and we now have eight quarter-final contenders ready to fight for your entertainment today!” More cheering, and the announcer had to motion for quiet yet again. Nuthea was glad that the Governor had allowed Ryn, Sagar and Vish to bypass the heats and go straight to the final bracket, even if the Farrian crowds didn’t know this. “As you know,” the announcer continued, “the rules of the tournament are simple: If a combatant falls out of bounds”—he indicated the dirt perimeter that bordered the arena in front of the wooden barrier that separated it from the crowd–“or if they yield, are incapacitated, unconscious or otherwise unable to fight for the count of ten, then their opponent is declared the winner of the round! Now, without further ado, I give you your first quarter-finalists: Ryn of Efstan versus Rogar the Unsurpassable of Morekemia!” The crowd cheered and applauded, though not as loudly as it might have. Nuthea was surprised to hear that ‘Rogar’ was not a Farrian, but a Morekemian, but gathered from what she had overheard earlier that he was a foreign free agent who fought on Farr’s tournament circuit. So not everyone who had progressed from the heats was a native Farrian—that must have irritated the Governor. She watched as Ryn walked out of the tunnel that the announcer had emerged from. His eyes found her at the front of the crowd, then quickly looked away. The boy took his place on one side of the arena. Nuthea winced. Ryn didn’t seem to know where to put his hands, and ended up half-hugging himself with one of his arms. He looked hopelessly uncomfortable. Then ‘Rogar the Unsurpassable of Morekemia’ walked out of the dugout. Oh dear, thought Nuthea. Ryn regarded the man standing ten paces away from him across the arena floor. About two feet taller than him, Rogar the Unsurpassable cast a shadow that almost reached the young Efstanish farmboy even in the midday sun. The man was a giant. He was even bigger than Huld. The difference between this man and Huld, however, was that whereas Huld’s bulk was all honed muscle, Rogar’s was fat. There was no other way to put it. A gigantic girth almost burst out of his trou

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit sagaofthejewels.substack.com

Previously on Saga of the Jewels… The life of seventeen-year-old RYN, bookish son of a wealthy landowner, changes forever when his hometown is destroyed by the EMPIRE and everyone he has ever known is killed. He discovers that the Empire are seeking TWELVE PRIMEVAL JEWELS which grant the power to manipulate different elements, and that his father had been hiding the FIRE RUBY. Ryn sets out to take revenge on the Imperial General who killed his family and retrieve the Fire Ruby, and along the way meets NUTHEA the lightning-slinging princess, SAGAR the swaggering skypirate, ELRANN the tomboy engineer, CID the wizened old healer, and VISH the poppy-seed-addicted bounty hunter. Together the companions decide to find all of the Jewels in order to stop the EMPEROR from finding them first and taking over the world. They have thus far succeeded in retrieving the Fire Ruby, borne by Ryn, and the Lightning Crystal, borne by Nuthea. They have now come to the land of FARR where they intend to compete in a hand-to-hand fighting tournament in order to attempt to win its grand prize, the EARTH EMERALD… EPISODE THIRTY-SEVEN: STRANGE TALES OF TWO STRANGERS One night before the Tournament. Cid eased himself back into the comfy cushioned chair in the corner of the manse’s dining area and sighed in relaxation. “Ahhhh…” He lifted the mug of tea that he had made for himself and inhaled deeply through his nose. Sweet and minty, with a hint of citrus. The Farrians were good at tea. It was too hot to drink quite yet, so he just sat like that for a while with both his hands around the mug, letting it warm them, enjoying its fragrance. Bliss. He had certainly earned a day off. They had all been training hard at the direction of young man Vish–even Cid. Although he was not planning to fight in the tournament–nothing could appeal to him less–he had joined in with the others’ training for the sake of the exercise, and because he wanted to show willing and that he was one of the group. Although due to his age he had not been able to keep up to anything like the pace of the whippersnappers, the Shadowfinger had still put him through his own paces, and Cid had ached all over when he had woken up this morning. He had needed the break. He stretched his legs out and drew in another deep breath of steaming tea. It had been a good day off, too. He had spent it wandering the city with his Granddaughter and young man Ryn, looking in the different shops and visiting the different ornamental gardens, chatting about everything and nothing–the Jewels, their prospects in the upcoming tournament which would start tomorrow, where they would go next if they managed to secure the Earth Emerald. It had all been very pleasant. And now, to have an evening to himself, just to sit and rest while everyone else was out, free for a while of their bickering and squabbling and the different attractions that simmered between them…it was as though all the children were out for the night and so he could enjoy himself in peace. No, he corrected himself, it was as though all the grandchildren were out for the night and so he could enjoy himself in peace. “Heh,” he chuckled to himself. “Don’t forget just quite how old you are, old man Cid.” He took a sip of the tea, now just about drinkable, and let it slide deliciously down his throat. He tipped his head back in the chair and shut his eyes, allowing himself to be lost in the sweet taste and the comfort of relaxing in this chair, without having to think for a few moments about the quest, or the danger they were all in, or how the fate of Mid rested on their shoulders, or how to keep this band of younglings alive for another day, or the terrible things he knew they would have to do that he didn’t want to think about. He might even take a nap in this chair, or fall asleep early for the night... Bliss, he thought again. From across the manse, the sound of the front door bursting open. Commotion. Shouts. The voices of the two boys, arguing. Oh no. Cid opened his eyes and sat up straight. Ryn and Sagar exploded into the dining room. “Cid!” Ryn began at once, running up to him and launching into a manic report. “Nuthea and I went to see a play and there was a Jewel-wielder there possibly two and she told us not to make a scene but then Sagar was really really drunk and came to find us because he and Elrann found some other jewel-related person in a pub but then he went up on the stage and got in a fight so I had to go up too but then we had to give away that we had elemental powers and the lead actor got angry and attacked us and–!” “Woah, woah!” Cid interrupted him, like he was soothing a spooked chocobo that he had lost control of. “Slow down, lad! One thing at a time! Tell me what’s happened, slowly.” “Don’ lissshen to him!” said Sagar, almost falling over himself as he stumbled over to one of the chairs at the dining table and sat clumsily astride it, putting his arms out to steady himself and then draping himself over the table. “He’sh telling it wrong! There wash a man singing about the Jewelesh, like he knew where they all were, so we went to find the prinshesh and the pup an’ tell ‘em, but then there wash thish dragon, an’…” The pirate ran out of steam, and now he did go over, his head lolling forward onto the table and hitting it with a smack, then stopping there. A short pause, and he began to snore loudly. Cid turned back to Ryn. “You try again,” he said. “Slowly.” “Um. Hello,” said a young female voice. Standing in the doorway was a short girl in a pale green ballroom-dress, with deep green hair cut short into a fringe and a bob, and huge, glittering green eyes. Her skin was very pale indeed, and she was wringing her hands. She looked as though she had just been through some sort of trauma. “Oh!” said Cid. “I didn’t notice you there. Hello, young lady. Please, come in, have some tea, take a chair!” Cid poured the girl a drink from the stove while Ryn got her a chair to sit on. The girl took the tea gratefully and perched on the edge of the chair. She was trembling, Cid noticed, little ripples forming in the mug of tea, which she clutched tight like she was holding onto the hand of a protecting parent. Definitely trauma, he thought with his Healer’s mind. When she was settled, Cid sat down at the table too and bade Ryn do the same. “Now,” he said to the boy over the sound of Sagar’s snoring. “Tell me slowly and carefully what has been happening and why you have brought back this poor young lady to the manse.” “Well–” began Ryn. The front door banged open again. “Grandfather!” came Nuthea’s voice from the entry hall. “Grandfather, are you up? There’s some things I’ve got to tell you!” She ran into the dining room, followed quickly by Elrann, followed by another newcomer: a man in a hooded grey traveller’s cloak with a lute-case slung over one shoulder, and the unusual contrast of dark skin and deep blue hair, which hung in thick locks down either side of his face. An Umbarian, Cid thought. The Sapphire-keepers. This one is far from home… “Hi, pops!” said Elrann cheerfully, taking her own seat at the table. “Some stuff’s been going down. Oh,” she said when she saw the green-haired girl, “spirit-girl! You made it! Welcome to the party.” She smiled with her eyes shut. When Nuthea also saw the green-haired girl seated at the table, she said, “Ah, you managed to bring her back, Ryn. Well done! Are you okay?” she asked the girl. “I’m f-fine,” stammered the girl. “Um…who are you?” “I am Princess Nuthea Kaleutheanna of the Matriarchy of Manolia,” Nuthea announced proudly. “I identified that you were employing spirit projection in that play and asked my friend here if he could set up a conversation with you.” “You mean the guy asleep over there who jumped onstage and attacked my dragon projection?” Nuthea deflated a bit. “Um, no. That part wasn’t planned. I meant my friend Ryn here. The one who, er, attacked your colleague’s lion projection.” Cid thought it best to interject here. “Excuse me, young ones, but could one of you please explain to me slowly and plainly what is going on, and why you have invited these two strangers back to our residence?” “Right,” said both Ryn and Nuthea at the same time. They looked at each other. “I’ll explain,” they each said again simultaneously. “You go,” said Ryn, ceding the floor at last to Nuthea. “Alright,” she said, accepting without another word, “what’s happened is that–” The front door banged again, cutting her off. Who’s left? Cid thought. Oh yes. Young man Vish. At least he should have managed to keep himself out of trouble, without poppy seed. There were no shouts or cries this time, just the slow thud of Vish’s footfall across the entry hall towards them. But the footsteps were irregular, and heavier than usual. It sounded like he was staggering, like he might be injured. Maybe that was why everyone stayed silent, listening to the erratic noise of the footsteps. Vish appeared in the doorway, a framed black figure. He just stood there for a moment, looking at all of them. He was breathing heavily, his loud, ragged breaths practically matching the volume of Sagar’s snoring, as he slumped against the doorjamb. Vish fell forwards onto his front onto the floor, hitting it with a light thwap. That was when Cid noticed the spotted trail of blood behind him, and the blood that was soaking out from him now onto the floor. “He’s hurt!” Cid cried, leaping up immediately and rushing over to the fallen Shadowfinger. “Quick, boys, help me get him onto his back!” Ryn and the newcomer Umbarian, whose name Cid didn’t even know yet, carefully pulled Vish over onto his back. The Shadowfinger groaned as he went over, not with pain, but what sounded like…pleasure. Oh no,

Previously on Saga of the Jewels… The life of seventeen-year-old RYN, bookish son of a wealthy landowner, changes forever when his hometown is destroyed by the EMPIRE and everyone he has ever known is killed. He discovers that the Empire are seeking TWELVE PRIMEVAL JEWELS which grant the power to manipulate different elements, and that his father had been hiding the FIRE RUBY. Ryn sets out to take revenge on the Imperial General who killed his family and retrieve the Fire Ruby, and along the way meets NUTHEA the lightning-slinging princess, SAGAR the swaggering skypirate, ELRANN the tomboy engineer, CID the wizened old healer, and VISH the poppy-seed-addicted bounty hunter. Together the companions decide to find all of the Jewels in order to stop the EMPEROR from finding them first and taking over the world. They have thus far succeeded in retrieving the Fire Ruby, borne by Ryn, and the Lightning Crystal, borne by Nuthea. They have now come to the land of FARR where they intend to compete in a hand-to-hand fighting tournament in order to attempt to win its prize, the EARTH EMERALD… EPISODE THIRTY-SIX: HUNTING FOR POPPY One day before the tournament. Vish was pissed off. As he stalked the stone-paved streets of some lower level of this wretched Farrian city, weaving in and out of the milling crowds, their inane chatter filling his ears, the hot noonday sun beating down on him, his limbs ached with longing and his heart was full of craving. Damn the old man, he thought to himself. Damn the boy for having mercy on me and allowing me to live when they defeated me outside Nont. Damn the poppy. I want the poppy. Damn Veln for betraying me. Damn them all to whatever hells may or may not exist. Another wave of craving hit him, right in his guts and loins, and he visualised himself taking a small black poppy seed and placing it into his mouth. Just as he had done a thousand times that day already, he imagined it coming to rest on his tongue, recalled its intense, sweet taste permeating his mouth. He imagined swallowing it, and the torrents of pleasure that would surge through his body as a result. But no true taste, no true pleasure came–only a shadow and an echo of past tastes and pleasures that left him hollow and wanting real poppy and in need of replaying the whole routine in his mind again. He bumped into someone, banging his face right into them. “Hey, watch where you’re going!” said the big brutish man with a bush of beard. Probably Dokanese. “I apologise,” said Vish, holding up his hands, not meaning it at all but wanting to move this latest irritant along as quickly as possible. “My mind was elsewhere.” That much was true at least. The man’s fat face softened, but only a little. “Well, be more careful next time, Aibarian.” Apparently the man was well-travelled enough to judge Vish’s nationality just from the small strip of skin visible from within his head covering. Perhaps by his style of dress too. The man walked off, leaving the Shadowfinger to his flashbacks and his poppy cravings. He walked on, and another craving-wave rolled through him. Actually, Vish reflected, he knew that at least one hell did exist. He knew it existed because he was experiencing it now. For some stupid reason he had agreed with the old man to space out his poppy hits, which meant that he couldn’t have one today. In an effort to focus on something other than his imagining taking poppy again, he tried to recall the conversation he had with him earlier that day. “Now master Vish,” the old man Cid had said to him at his door when the Shadowfinger had gone to see him to request some more poppy earlier that morning, “you know we agreed that you would start spacing out your hits and wait a bit longer until the next one.” “I’ve changed my mind,” Vish said. “I want one now.” “But you agreed to this.” Why had he agreed to it? He couldn’t even remember any more. “Maybe I did,” he said “but I’ve changed my mind. Give it to me now.” “Vish, you can’t just go back on your agreement like that so easily. You know, some poppyheads give up poppy all in one go, just stopping ‘cold chocobo’, and never go back. If the physical withdrawal symptoms can be managed safely, that is actually the best way to do it.” “What?!” Now the old man wasn’t just talking about spacing out the hits; now he was talking about stopping them altogether! “There is no way that I would ever do that.” “It might be the better way for you to do it. Ask the One. Ask the One to help you, to relieve you. He will.” “I don’t believe in your ‘One’, old man.” “Just try it. He believes in you.” That had really pissed Vish off. “Don’t give me that poodoo! Just give me my poppy, old man! I don’t believe in your ‘One’! He’s not real! What has he ever done for me? Where was he when my mother threw me out on the streets of Saudran to fend for myself? Where was he when I was begging and stealing and fighting among the street rats? Where was he when I was doing all the terrible things that I’ve done just to stay alive, and then to get my next poppy hit?” The old man, to his credit, had at least gone quiet for a moment at that, and bowed his head slightly in sympathy. “I do not have an easy answer for you,” Cid said. “All I can offer you is that I believe he saw those things happen, and that he felt them with you, that they grieved him, and that he has given you a way out of that life, now.” Vish considered the old man’s words for a moment. There was a certain…appeal to them. But they just seemed unreal to him. They seemed like an invented fantasy. Reality was much crueller. “I want my poppy, old man. Give it to me. Now.” Cid sighed. “No. You may be able to make your own choices, but so am I, and the poppy belongs to me. I am choosing not to give it to you now, and I’m sorry, but that’s the end of the matter. You need to begin to learn that you can survive, and even begin to experience some peace and enjoyment, without it. One week. That is my concession. You can have some more poppy seed in one week.” The old man closed the door in Vish’s face. Vish seethed, fury filling fibre of his body, along with the longing for the poppy, in fact only another expression of it. For a moment he considered bashing down the door, overpowering the old man, slitting his throat, and then stealing his whole poppy supply and running away from the group. And he had almost done it. But he hadn’t. Why didn’t I do it? he thought now as he traipsed the cobbled streets of Shun Pei. He should have just done it! But he hadn’t done it, he discovered, because somewhere, in a miniscule corner of his darkened mind, a tiny little shred of hope had appeared. The smallest sliver of a ray of hope had formed; hope that he might actually be able to come off the poppy one day and be freed of his all-consuming constant desperate craving for it. Damn the old man for planting that hope! And damn me for not being able to completely let go of it! Part of him, somewhere, remembered what it was like not to know the poppy, not to be consumed by the longing for the poppy. Part of him, somewhere, remembered what it was like to experience the joys of life unadulterated by craving and poppy. The memories of happiness were few and far between, but they were there: The play of warm sunlight on the back of his uncovered neck. The gentle morning breeze tickling his skin. Laughter, the company of friends. The touch and kiss of Eflana, his consort when he has been working for Veln. Maybe he could get his enjoyment of all of those things back? Vish stopped in his tracks. Instinctively, his feet had led him to a shopfront. More of a stall, really. The doors of a battered wooden shed opened right onto the dusty street of this level of the city. In the opening they created stood a rickety table with all different sorts of herbs, roots, and plants arrayed on it, which hung from the doors as well. Crushed up powders in jars. Different coloured liquids in stoppered-up bottles. The pale purple flowers of some exotic plant, plucked and laid out in little earthenware bowls. Behind the table hunched a withered old crone with a hump-back and a crooked nose, dressed in the brown robes that seemed to be worn by most of the Farrians on this level. “Medicines!” the woman screeched when she saw Vish had stopped, to clarify what exactly it was that was arrayed before him. “Get your medicines!” When Vish approached her she said “Looking for something in particular, good sir? There a specific ailment that’s troubling you?” Vish chose his words carefully. As far as he knew, poppy was outlawed in almost every single nation of Mid, including Farr, because of how it tended to make people addicted to it and ruin their lives, not to mention the side effects of making one particularly strong and agile during a hit. “Do you have anything for a…headache?” he said slowly. “Headache?!” said the woman. “Why, you need crushed minofin root, of course! You run out? Only one gold piece for a jar! Eat a spoonful every hour till you feel better, which will be soon!” Vish eyed the small jar of yellow powder that the woman held up to him and shook so that it danced around in a cloud. He was not impressed. He was not convinced that the powder would have any kind of effect on anyone, let alone on him. “That’s not what I’m looking for,” he said. “Do you have anything…… stronger?” He pulled down the front of his face-scarf down a little, just enough to expose some of his blackened mouth. The woman narrowed her eyes at him as she regarded him over her crooked nose. “I am sure I have no idea what you mean,” she said quietly. Damn, Vish thought and tugged the scarf back up He turned away from the stall and almost walked into a large Farrian man almost as rotund as he was tall. Again. The man he had bum

Previously on Saga of the Jewels… The life of seventeen-year-old RYN, bookish son of a wealthy landowner, changes forever when his hometown is destroyed by the EMPIRE and everyone he has ever known is killed. Ryn discovers that the Empire are seeking TWELVE PRIMEVAL JEWELS which grant the power to manipulate different elements, and that his father had been hiding the FIRE RUBY. He sets out to take revenge on the Imperial General who killed his family and retrieve the Fire Ruby, and along the way meets NUTHEA the lightning-slinging princess, SAGAR the swaggering skypirate, ELRANN the tomboy engineer, CID the wizened old healer, and VISH the poppy-seed-addicted assassin. Together the adventurers decide to find all of the Jewels in order to stop the evil EMPEROR from finding them first and taking over the world. They have thus far succeeded in retrieving the Fire Ruby, borne by Ryn, and the Lightning Crystal, borne by Nuthea. They have now come to the land of FARR where they intend to compete in a hand-to-hand fighting tournament in order to attempt to win its grand prize, the EARTH EMERALD… EPISODE THIRTY-FIVE: ACT TWO One night before the tournament. As soon as the red velvet curtain went down for the interval, Ryn turned to Nuthea from where he sat next to her and said “What do you mean she’s Jewel-touched?” He had tried to ask her while the play had been going on but it had been too difficult to talk in whispers without disturbing the people around them and making a scene–a different scene to the one happening on the stage, that is–so she had repeatedly shushed him, to his obvious frustration. “What do you mean?” he pressed her again, now he had the opportunity. Everyone else around them was talking about the spectacle of the first half of the play they had just watched. Nuthea brushed her hair out of her eyes. She felt slightly lightheaded. But she didn’t need to call the answer to mind. She had been going over and over it in her head ever since that lifelike dragon had appeared on stage. “One of the Jewels…” she answered him, speaking quietly so that they wouldn’t be overheard, but not so quietly that Ryn couldn’t hear. “...the ‘Spirit Carnelian’...is supposed to grant the gift of being able to ‘summon’ creatures from the spirit realm… to give physical, animal shape to projections of spirit. Not very much is known about it, except that, and it’s thought that the Jewel has been lost for many thousands of years. There are very few mentions of spirit-projectors in the lore; you have to go back centuries to find even a single one, and even then the references are somewhat…mythical. Some argue that the Spirit Carnelian has never been found since the One hid it somewhere in Mid or that it doesn’t exist at all–” “Well then how would anyone know about it?” Ryn butted in, interrupting her flow. Nuthea frowned. He could be so annoying sometimes, speaking over her. “Well, these are ancient legends we are talking about, obviously. Their origins are shrouded in distant time. But we can trust the sacred texts of Oneism. They have been right about the other Jewels so far, after all...” “So why do you think that actress has touched the ‘Spirit Carnelian’?” “You saw that dragon, Ryn. It was real.” “You don’t think it could have been some sort of stage trick, or made out of something else?” “Well, there’s only one way to find out, isn’t there?” She had decided this while they had been watching the play. “Alright then,” said Ryn, and stood up. Nuthea grabbed his arm, horrified. “What are you doing?” He’s trying to be heroic, isn’t he? For my sake. Oh dear. “You want to go and talk to her, don’t you?” “Yes, but not now! If she is Jewel-touched, we will need to speak with her at length–ask her where she made contact with the Carnelian, whether she knows its present location, and so on...” Perhaps whether she even has it, Nuthea thought. “That will take some time, more than we will have during this interval, and if the second half of the play is delayed then we will cause a commotion and draw attention to ourselves. We should wait until the play has finished, then go and find her backstage.” “Okay.” To her immense relief, Ryn sat down again. They waited for the second half of the play to begin while the other members of the audience chattered excitedly around them, mainly about the dragon and how impressive it had been. From what Nuthea could overhear, the other audience members were convinced that it had been some sort of a trick, as nobody had been known to tame a real-life dragon before, at least in living memory. Her attention drifted away from the chatter. If we do get to speak to this young lady, which we must, how will we convince her that we know about the Jewels? Normally she would make a small display of her lightning projection, but there she faced the problem that she was still blocked for some reason, and her conversation with Cid hadn’t unblocked her. It had been nice to be distracted from all of that by the play, and then by the appearance of this spirit-summoning girl, and not to have to think about her lightning projection being blocked for a while. Nuthea sighed. She would have to rely on Ryn again to make a display of his fire projection in order to convince the girl that they had knowledge of the Jewels, just as she had done when they had been trying to gain an audience with the Governor. “Are you alright?” Ryn said to her, apparently having noticed her sighing. “Hm?” said Nuthea. “Oh, yes, thank you, just thinking…” She didn’t want to take advantage of Ryn, but it was very useful having him around for occasions such as this. The trouble is, I don’t want to lead him on, either… Was she leading him on? Why had she agreed to come to see a play with him? She had made it very clear that this wasn’t a signal of any kind of romantic interest. But then again, going to see a play with someone was quite an intimate activity in itself, regardless of what one called it…wasn’t it? And Sagar had been so rude to her; she had to admit that at least in part she had agreed to go with Ryn in order to spite the skypirate. That wasn’t really fair. All of this would be a lot easier if she knew how she felt about Ryn. The trouble was, she didn’t know how she really felt about him. He was her friend, for sure, and they had been through a lot together. They had already forgiven each other for a lot. And he was sweet, and sometimes charming, and sensitive. And handsome, in a youthful, boyish sort of way. But it was just too confusing and muddled to contemplate anything like that so soon after…so soon after her mother’s death. She had enough to think about at the moment, what with that, and finding the Jewels, and being blocked… Just then a clear bell rang from somewhere behind the curtain, signalling that the second act of the play was about to start. When complete quiet had fallen on the audience and the last of its chatter had died away, the curtains came back up. Zigfrid Alantherous was waiting behind them at centre stage in his finery, and immediately launched into a monologue about how he was going to find the Princess to rescue her from the Evil Dragon and save the kingdom which she represented. Nuthea wasn’t able to pay proper attention to it. She hadn’t been able to pay proper attention to the plot of the play ever since the green-haired girl had come on and summoned the dragon. She let it wash over her, waiting for the next appearance of the green-haired girl, waiting for the end of the play when they would go and find her to talk to her, contemplating how she would explain their plight to her and wondering what sort of attitude the girl would respond with. Eventually, the green-haired girl reappeared on the stage. She ran on from stage left, with big, deliberate movements to unconvincingly communicate that she was tired; huffing and puffing and overacting. This time the dragon followed her, its menacing green form pursuing her from offstage, powerful limbs pumping. The girl turned, then swooned, putting the back of her hand to her forehead and letting out a bad excuse for a falsetto scream. In response, the dragon reared its head and roared, opening its jaws to issue a plume of green flame into the air. The audience gasped. The dragon was more convincing in its acting than the girl was. Now Zigfrid sauntered onto the stage too, sharing a scene with the girl for the first time. The audience clapped. “Fear not, Princess!” he declared. “Now that I have found thee I will save thee from this fell beast!” He drew his fake sword–well, at least Nuthea assumed it was fake–and brandished it at the dragon, leaping forwards to do battle. Fortunately for him it didn’t simply breathe fire on him there and then and burn him to a cinder. Somebody in the audience yelled. Wait, why were they yelling? Nuthea twisted round in her seat. Other people were turning too, distracted even from the spectacle unfolding before them onstage. At the back of the playhouse near the doors, someone was causing a commotion. A flurry of irritated protests and shouting had started in reaction to it. “Oi!” “What do you think you’re doing?” “Hey, I paid good money for this seat–get off me!” Someone was stumbling over the rows of playhouse chairs clumsily, banging into people, knocking them over when they stood up to get out of their way, making all manner of fuss. Someone with an eye-patch, a ponytail and a somewhat fetching high-collared coat. Oh no. “Prinshesh!” yelled Sagar. “Pup! We’ve gots to show you shomething!” He was followed closely by purple-haired Elrann, and seemingly also with someone else in tow–a stranger in a grey cloak with their hood pulled up over their head, carrying a lute case and barely managing to keep out of harm’s way as Sagar dragge

Previously on Saga of the Jewels… The life of seventeen-year-old RYN, bookish son of a wealthy landowner, changes forever when his hometown is destroyed by the EMPIRE and everyone he has ever known is killed. Ryn discovers that the Empire are seeking TWELVE PRIMEVAL JEWELS which grant the power to manipulate different elements, and that his father had been hiding the FIRE RUBY. He sets out to take revenge on the Imperial General who killed his family and retrieve the Fire Ruby, and along the way meets NUTHEA the lightning-slinging princess, SAGAR the swaggering skypirate, ELRANN the tomboy engineer, CID the wizened old healer, and VISH the poppy-seed-addicted bounty hunter. Together the companions decide to find all of the Jewels in order to stop the EMPEROR from finding them first and taking over the world. They have thus far succeeded in retrieving the Fire Ruby, borne by Ryn, and the Lightning Crystal, borne by Nuthea. They have now come to the land of FARR where they intend to compete in a hand-to-hand fighting tournament in order to attempt to win its grand prize, the EARTH EMERALD… EPISODE THIRTY-FOUR: THE NIGHT I MAKE IT WITH A WOMAN One night before the tournament. Sagar shoved the door of the public drinking house open and let Elrann go in first. “What a gentleman,” she quipped as she walked past him. “I’m a pirate second, gentleman first,” Sagar lied, grinning. Need to be on my best behaviour tonight, he thought as he followed her in. Tonight is going to be the first night that I make it with a woman. No rudeness. No brawling. No showing myself up. I need to impress her. It was dim and cosy inside the pub, the only light coming from the orange flickers of a log-fire in the hearth. At this evening hour it was almost full, mostly of Farrians, but also some travellers from other lands–a big burly Aibarian, a smattering of Rikalian traders in colourful ponchos, and even a Morekemian, from the looks of her long braid, though thankfully not an Imperial–she must be an exile or a runaway. In one corner a lute player sat shrouded in shadows underneath a hooded cloak, picking the strings of his instrument with his fingers and softly singing the words to some sky-shanty. Perfect. Just the right mood. I chose well. Well done me. They found a table with two seats, not too far from the bar, and took them. In spite of himself, Sagar’s mouth was dry. This was going to be the night that he first made it with a woman, but he wasn’t quite sure where to start–or at least he had forgotten where he was meant to start. If he had ever known. Elrann regarded him cooly with her purple eyes. “Aren’t you going to offer to buy me a drink?” “What? Yes! Of course! I mean, of course I am. I was just waiting for you to tell me what you wanted. What do you want, woman?” “What I want is for you to stop calling me that.” She likes it really. “But in the meantime, since you’re offering, pirate-man, I’ll take a rice-wine.” “Rice-wine?” Sagar said. “What in the hells is that? Don’t you want a good ale?” “You won’t get one here,” said Elrann. “Farrian ale tastes like chocobo-piss. It’s famous for it. They’re very good at their rice-wine, though. Try one. You’ll see.” Sagar grunted, then went and ordered their first two rice-wines from the bar. While the Farrian bartender fetched them for him, he reviewed his plan of attack. Alright. I know she’s interested in me ’cause she agreed to come to the pub with me in the first place. And we’ve made it here–it wasn’t some sort of trick. Trouble is, I don’t know what I’m supposed to say to make things progress. So instead, I’ll just get really, really, really drunk. That’ll do it. A genius plan. It was a good thing he had swiped lots of coin from Cid for this evening. He took their drinks back to the table and clinked glasses with Elrann. The rice-wine tasted like…liquid fermented rice. It was strong. Elrann sighed contentedly and wiped her mouth. Sagar’s face stretched in astonishment. Where he had only taken a sip, the woman had downed the whole of her glass in one gulp. He became aware that he should probably be saying something. What? Complement her on her drinking ability. That was the sort of thing he had talked about with his crew, when they had still been alive. He opened his mouth to do so. “Shut up,” said the woman, holding up a hand. “Whatever you’re about to say, pirate-man, shut up. I’ve got something I need to talk to ya about. I’ve been putting it off for a while, trying to find the courage, ’specially cause if I’ve misjudged things then this is going to be mighty embarrassing for me, but I can’t wait any longer, and this seems to be my opportunity.” She looked around for a moment, as if checking that nobody else they knew was in this pub. They weren’t. Wow, that was easy, thought Sagar. I must just be that irresistible. He was aware that he was being uncharacteristically un-talkative. But that seemed to be working for him at the moment. Maybe he had been playing this all wrong. Maybe the best tactic was just to sit back, keep hit mouth shut and let her come to him. The woman was looking at him. Apparently he needed to say something. “Yeah?” he said in as nonchalant a manner as he could muster. “What is it, then?” “Pirate-man…” said Elrann. She looked him in the eyes again. “Sagar… As you know, I’ve been fascinated by airships for a long time. And as you’ve probably worked out by now, I have a bit of a fascination with airship pirates and captains as well.” Hope was truly stirring in Sagar’s chest now, and in his loins, but he kept his cool and kept up his relaxed skypirate-captain exterior. He wore it easily, as easily as he wore his awesome leather Captain’s Coat that he had inherited from his father. He was a professional at this, the best around. “Yeah?” he said nonchalantly. “Yeah, I do…” said Elrann. She sighed, looked over at the bar, caught the barman’s eye, held up two fingers and pointed at their table, then gave him a thumb-up when he had acknowledged what she wanted. How does she do that? She turned back to Sagar. “And…well, what I’m trying to say is that there’s a reason I do.” “I’m sure there is,” said Sagar, grinning. He leaned back a little in his chair, getting comfortable, and folded his arms. Play it cool. Don’t overcommit. You’re doing everything right, you dark cochobo. Elrann frowned slightly at him. “Yeah, there is. And the reason is…the reason is that my Mum… my Mum once told me about who my father was. Ya see, my mother was a rice-farmer from Zerlan who lived with her parents until I came along, and apparently my Dad…my Dad was a famous pirate skycaptain who slept with her once when he put into port in Zerlan.” Sagar frowned a little at that. He hadn’t been expecting this. It threw him a little. Okay, so she likes me ’cause of her Daddy issues. That’s a bit weird, but I can get on board with it. Whatever launches her airship. I’ve got my own Daddy issues too, most people do, though they don’t affect me in quite the same way… She was looking at him. He needed to say something again. “Yeah?” he said, a touch less nonchalantly than before. The barman arrived with two more drinks and set them down on the table before shuffling off again. “Pirate-man…” said Elrann, grasping her second drink, “what I’m trying to tell you is…don’t you see what I’m trying to tell you?” A vision of taking her back to her room at their lodgings flashed through Sagar’s mind. He grinned. “I think I might be starting to catch on…” He lifted his first glass of rice-wine to his mouth for another sip. “Sagar…what I’m trying to tell you is that I think I might be your half-sister.” The rice-wine sprayed out of Sagar’s mouth in a shower. Most of it went on his trousers. Some went on the table. Some went on Elrann. A pause. “What?!” he said. A pause. “WHAT?!!” he exclaimed. A pause. “WHAT?!!!” he shouted. The background chatter of the pub stopped, and the other drinkers all turned in their seats to look at him. Even the lutist stopped his playing and singing for a moment. “Nothing to see here folks!” Elrann said to the room. “Just a little revelation about a potential long-lost sibling!” The drinkers went back to their drinks, the lutist to his lute, in apparent acceptance of this. Sagar, meanwhile, had frozen. His mind had gone slow. Fascination. Airships. Pirate-skycaptain. Half-sister. “Whaaaaaaaat?” he said one more time, much more quietly but very high-pitched, to the woman. “Think about it,” Elrann said to him, leaning in and keeping her voice low. “My father was a famous pirate skycaptain. My Mum never told me his name, and I’m not even sure that she ever knew his name, but she did tell me that he was the captain of a pirate airship, and that he wore a ponytail and a long leather coat, among other things. That’s why I’ve always had a fascination with airships and skypirates–because of hearing about my Dad. When I put two and two together was when pops said that your father was a pirate skycaptain. Ya never mentioned that yaself. I reckon that your Dad, the one who travelled around with pops for a while, must be the same as my Dad.” Sagar stared at nothing at all. He was struggling to process this. Fragments of words and images danced around in his mind. Memories of his father, in his long coat and ponytail, boasting about his amorous conquests to the men. The times he had flown into or over Zerlan as part of his Dad’s crew. Had he even been on the voyage when this had happened, too young to remember it, or to naïve to be aware of it? Had Elrann really been conceived by the same person, under similar circumstances that he had? But then…urgh! Why had he been attracted to this woman if he was partly related to

Previously on Saga of the Jewels… The life of seventeen-year-old RYN, bookish son of a wealthy landowner, changes forever when his hometown is destroyed by the EMPIRE and everyone he has ever known is killed. Ryn discovers that the Empire are seeking TWELVE PRIMEVAL JEWELS which grant the power to manipulate different elements, and that his father had been hiding the FIRE RUBY. He sets out to take revenge on the Imperial General who killed his family and retrieve the Fire Ruby, and along the way meets NUTHEA the lightning-slinging princess, SAGAR the swaggering skypirate, ELRANN the tomboy engineer, CID the wizened old healer, and VISH the poppy-seed-addicted bounty hunter. Together the companions decide to find all of the Jewels in order to stop the evil EMPEROR from finding them first and taking over the world. They have thus far succeeded in retrieving the Fire Ruby, borne by Ryn, and the Lightning Crystal, borne by Nuthea. They have now come to the land of FARR where they intend to compete in a hand-to-hand fighting tournament in order to attempt to win its prize, the EARTH EMERALD… EPISODE THIRTY-THREE: THE PRINCESS AND THE DRAGON One night before the Tournament. Ryn sat down next to Nuthea on one of the simple wooden chairs. Around them, about a hundred or so people were sitting on their own chairs too. The hubbub of the chattering crowd enveloped them like a warm blanket. The wooden seat was hard and uncomfortable, but Ryn barely noticed it. His pulse was quick inside his head and his heart fluttered about inside his chest. It was all he had been able to afford from the common purse, anyway. The balconies had been far too expensive. I’m out on a date with a princess, he thought. No, a Queen. We may not be ‘exploring the possibility of a romantic relationship’, but that’s still what this is. We’re spending time with each other just to spend time with each other. He was terrified. Don’t mess this up. He was keenly aware of her presence at her side, like a fire burning in his peripheral vision. Should he say something? Was he meant to say something? He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t even know if he should be looking at her. Were there even any ‘shoulds’ in this situation? Instead, he stared straight ahead. Over the many heads of the people sat in front of them–mainly short, stocky, tanned Farrians, but also people from other countries–he could see the raised wooden stage at the front of the room. At the moment it was bare and unoccupied, though on the wall at the back of it had been depicted a forest of tall trees with thick trunks and curved, finger-like branches reaching up to the ceiling of the play-house, bedecked with myriad painted-green leaves. “Tell me what this play is about again, Ryn?” said Nuthea next to him. A bolt of shock spasmed through Ryn and he nearly fell off his seat. He coughed on purpose and tried to make it look like it was the cough that had unsettled him, but he wasn’t sure how successfully he managed it. He glanced at her. She was still expecting an answer from him, her eyebrows raised quizzically. “Er,” he said. “I’m not entirely sure. It’s called ‘The Princess and the Dragon’. It looked pretty good from the poster–it had a very detailed picture of a fire-breathing dragon and an armoured knight fighting it.” Ryn had liked that. That had been what persuaded him to change plans from taking Nuthea to a tavern to taking her to a play. That and the fact that Sagar was going with Elrann to a tavern and he didn’t want to accidentally end up in the same one. “All I know is that it’s being put on by a traveling theatre troupe that just got into Shun Pei. They’re meant to be very good. They’re called the ‘Manniro’ or something.” “Oh, the Manyiro!” Nuthea corrected him. Of course she knew the proper pronunciation. Of course she had heard of them before. “I’ve seen them perform many times in the palace when they were passing through Orma!” Poodoo. Ryn had dared to hope that he had found something special that Nuthea had never experienced before. Perhaps sensing his disappointment, Nuthea said “They are excellent. The Manyiro are a traveling people group who make their living by performing plays. They’re the best at what they do in the whole of Mid. Have you never seen a Manyiro performance?” “Er…” Ryn decided he might as well tell the truth. “...no. I don’t think they ever came to Cleasor…” He had seen plays, of course, and been in silly little ones put on in his schoolhouse or the village hall. But no, he had never seen a Mid-famous traveling play-acting people-group perform before. Of course Nuthea had. “Well you are in for a treat,” said Nuthea. “I love watching the Manyiro perform. They are masters of their craft. This will be a great way to relax and take our minds off things before the Tournament. Good choice, Ryn.” Ryn brightened a little at that. He wanted so much for Nuthea to enjoy this. He also wanted so much to tell her how he felt about her…but one thing at a time. “Have you seen this particular play?” he asked her, wary. “No, I don’t think I’ve ever seen ‘The Princess and the Dragon.’” Phew. That was something, at least. “Well, the poster for it looked really good.” Idiot. You said that already. Or something like that, anyway… Their conversation lulled. Ryn looked at the empty stage again. When was this play going to start? He cast around in his mind for something else to talk to her about. He couldn’t risk Nuthea growing bored. She had to enjoy this evening. This evening with him. Especially if she ever ended up going to a tavern with Sagar as well… But his mind had gone blank. What should he say to her? He remembered something. Something that he had been wondering about for a while. Yes, he could try that. “Nuthea?” “Yes?” “When you project lightning, why do you shout the word ‘bolt’?” “Ah, yes.” She appeared to take this as a signal to switch into lecture mode, but Ryn didn’t mind–at least she would be talking, which would buy him time to come up with more interesting things to say. “That’s called a ‘focus-word’. They’re not essential to use to project your element, but those who train in the use of Jewel-gifts usually end up employing them. You will find that when your mind is more focused, concentrated, or engaged, you will ‘spell’ (if you call it that—everyone has different names for it) more effectively and powerfully. So one technique that was developed very early on was to utter a word around which to focus the mind when you are ‘spelling’, or projecting, or manipulating your element, or whatever you want to call it. Naturally, the best word to use is the word most closely associated with whatever it is that you are projecting. So, when I am projecting a lightning bolt, I shout ‘bolt’. I would have taught you about focus-words before, but you seemed to be using them anyway.” “That’s right…” Ryn said, thinking back to the first time he had manifested fire, in his hometown, Cleasor, the day the Empire had attacked. “When I projected for the first time, I shouted ‘fire!’ when I did it, as far as I can remember. I just did it, without having to be told to do it. And I’ve been doing it instinctively, ever since then.” “There you go,” said Nuthea, nodding approvingly at him like a pleasing pupil. “See? That is your focus-word for projecting your element, naturally.” “But sometimes I’ve noticed you say the word but you don’t finish it properly—it changes into a sort of shout.” Nuthea’s nod became knowing rather than merely approving. “Yes, that does happen too. When you are casting a large spell—channelling large amounts of mana—the focus word is even more helpful and necessary to keep the element under your control, but it can be hard to get all of it out because the toll on the body from the projection is so great. So sometimes when I cast a particularly large lightning bolt, or series of lightning bolts, I lose control and the word loses its shape… I’m working on it, but at the use of certain levels of magic it becomes virtually possible not to let out a shout or even a scream at the end of the word. So sometimes it sounds a bit like ‘boltah’ or ‘boltaragh’ or even ‘boltagah’.” Ryn pondered this. “Thanks, that actually makes a lot of sense. I guess I should carry on using focus words to help me focus my ‘fire’.” “Absolutely. Captain Sagar and Grandfather Cid use them too—I’m sure you’ve heard them. I don’t know if Sagar was ever taught to use them–he probably just uses them on instinct too–but I’m sure Cid has specifically trained in using them. And as you practice and train and get stronger and more proficient in your gift and your mana capacity grows, you may find yourself developing different projection techniques as well, for which you may want to use different focus words. I haven’t developed any myself yet but I know Grandfather has several, for different techniques in manipulation of the element of light which gives energy to all living things: ‘cure’, ‘heal, ‘syphon, even just ‘raise’. He has been practicing for a long time and has a very large mana pool. He is very proficient in his gift.” “I think I may have actually starting doing that already…” Ryn realised out loud. “Once when I fought Vorr on the train in Imfis I suddenly found myself shouting ‘fireburst’ and I projected this really big and hot flame attack... It was more flame than I had ever projected before, and possibly ever have since. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever managed to project fire with the same intensity and ferocity since then… I can’t quite explain it; it’s still fire, but it’s like it comes from a different part of me, a deeper, more desperate part of me…” “Aha,” said N

https://mybook.to/sotj1 This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit sagaofthejewels.substack.com

Previously on Saga of the Jewels… The life of seventeen-year-old RYN, bookish son of a wealthy landowner, changes forever when his hometown is destroyed by the EMPIRE and everyone he has ever known is killed. Ryn discovers that the Empire are seeking TWELVE PRIMEVAL JEWELS which grant the power to manipulate different elements, and that his father had been hiding the FIRE RUBY. He sets out to take revenge on the Imperial General who killed his family and retrieve the Fire Ruby, and along the way meets NUTHEA the lightning-slinging princess, SAGAR the swaggering skypirate, ELRANN the tomboy engineer, CID the wizened old healer, and VISH the poppy-seed-addicted assassin. Together the adventurers decide to find all of the Jewels in order to stop the evil EMPEROR from finding them first and taking over the world. They have thus far succeeded in retrieving the Fire Ruby, borne by Ryn, and the Lightning Crystal, borne by Nuthea. They have now come to the land of FARR where they intend to compete in a hand-to-hand fighting tournament in order to attempt to win its grand prize, the EARTH EMERALD… EPISODE THIRTY-TWO: TRAINING Six days until the Tournament. Nuthea surveyed the garden area of the little manse they had been given to lodge in. A wooden boundary-fence marked off an area about twenty metres wide and long. A patio floor of cream-coloured stone reflected the heat of the Farrian Summer morning sunshine. Aside from that it was bare except for a little ornamental pond and some potted plants off in the far corner. This will have to do, she thought. She regarded her troops, as she was coming to think of them: Ryn, Sagar, Elrann, Vish and Cid all stood shoulder-to-shoulder in a line facing her. She hadn’t even asked them to do that; they had just done it naturally when she had called them outside. She would make a fighting squad of them yet. “Okay, team,” she said. “The Governor has said that we can enter four people into the tournament, without us even having to go through the qualifying heats. So the first thing we need to do is choose which four of us will enter.” “Well obviously I’m the first choice,” said Sagar, putting his hands on his hips and sticking out his chest a little. Nuthea saw Ryn open his mouth but she jumped in first. “May I just remind you, Captain Sagar, that the Governor has told us that this will be a tournament of unarmed combat?” The pirate deflated ever so slightly, then frowned. “So what? I’m still the best fighter among us. Well, maybe joint best. I suppose the scumsucker is alright at fighting too…” “I have a question,” said Ryn, ignoring Sagar and putting up his hand like a school pupil. “Will we be allowed to use our elemental projection powers?” “I…” Nuthea hesitated. “I’m not sure. I didn’t ask about that.” “Of course we will,” said Sagar. “Now that they’ve got the Emerald, you can bet your arse that the Farrians will be using theirs. Hells, I wouldn’t be surprised if they enter Baldy into the tournament. Didn’t the Governor guy say that he was their strongest monk? And now he’s got earth powers, there’s no doubt he’ll use them…” Sagar’s voice trailed off. He was seeming less and less confident by the moment. “Well if that’s the case,” spoke up Elrann, “then I think it’s pretty obvious who we’re going to enter, isn’t it, princess-girl? I mean, I can handle myself in a fight, sure, but I much prefer to have my pistols and whip with me. I’m not so sure that I could take on a trained fighter as strong as monk-man, especially when he’s got earth powers now. The logical choice for who we enter is: you, farmboy and pirate-man, because of all your Jewel-thingamy-powers, and the bountyhunter because of his badass fighting skills.” Yes, thought Nuthea, that is the logical choice, except what you don’t know is that I’m blocked. “How does everyone feel about that?” she said out loud. Sagar folded his arms and nodded, clearly still trying to communicate an air of nonchalance. “I’ll fight,” said Ryn, rubbing his hand. “Shadowfinger Vish?” Nuthea said. Vish shrugged. “You know what I want. As long as you give it to me, I will fight for you. I have fought in ‘tournaments’ before, and won them.” “You have?!” “Yes. Both before I became a slave to the Empire, and since.” “Well,” said Elrann, “that settles it then, doesn’t it?” “Hold on,” said Nuthea, “let us give everyone a chance to speak. Grandfather, do you wish to fight?” Cid’s bushy eyebrows rose. He looked surprised to even be asked. “Oh goodness, no, Granddaughter, I’m getting too old for this sort of thing. I am happy to sit this one out.” “Even though you are more experienced than the rest of us and might not have to face the same obstacles in preparing for the tournament?” Nuthea tried to convey extra meaning through emphasis of the word and a tip of her head to one side. Cid’s eyes glittered, and she knew he had understood her. “Ah. Yes; even so. Do not worry. We have a week–I’m sure that is plenty of time for you to improve and to overcome any obstacles you might be facing in the way of your peak performance.” Nuthea nodded, taking his meaning in turn. “Then it is settled. Unless a better idea presents itself for whatever reason, myself, Ryn, Captain Sagar and Shadowfinger Vish will enter the tournament to compete for, and win, the Earth Emerald.” She turned to Vish. “Shadowfinger Vish, you are clearly the b…'' She paused, not wanting to set Sagar off again. “You are clearly highly proficient at hand-to-hand combat, especially when elemental projection is taken out of the calculations. Will you train us in what you know of unarmed combat?” Vish’s eyes were blank and unreadable above his face scarf as the rest of them awaited his response. “Will you give me poppy?” he said to Cid in return. “You know that you are meant to be coming off of it,” said Cid, “which is what you really want, remember? But yes, as part of withdrawing slowly, you can have some poppy in a week and a half. After the tournament.” The Shadowfinger was silent again, his eyes still blank. “I will train you,” he said at last. “Thank you,” said Nuthea. “Poodoo to that!” said Sagar, throwing up his hands. “I don’t need any fighting lessons, especially from an ex-Imperial scumsucker like him. I’m off to go and find myself a drink.” He began to stalk towards the manse, then stopped. “You coming, woman?” Elrann’s brows knotted. “Why would I be?” “Cause you agreed to go for a drink with me the other night?” Elrann scratched her chin. “Oh, right. Yeah, but not now. We said we would go in five days, on our day off from training before the tournament starts. I want to train with the others and see what the bountyhunter has to teach us.” “Whatever,” said Sagar, “suit yourself.” The door slammed behind him as he left the garden-courtyard. He was beginning to irk Nuthea somewhat. She refocused on the task at hand. “Here we go then,” she said, “Vish, you swap with me.” She traded places with the Shadowfinger to join the end of the lineup next to Cid, and Vish took the place in front of them all, facing them. The rest of them awaited Vish’s first instruction. Vish sighed deeply, a sound like the last breath going out of a corpse. “Alright, listen,” he said in his slightly exotic-accented, guttural tones. “I am good at fighting, but not for the reasons you think. When the…untrained think about schooling in the fighting arts, they imagine it is all about learning special routines and practicing certain steps, like learning to dance. And there is some of that. But a fight, a real fight, is not like a dance. In a real fight, any routines you might have learned, any special techniques with grand names like the monk performed, any semblance of control or poise you might have, go out the window, and you just become another animal trying to kill all the other animals to stay alive. And the fastest, most brutal, most vicious animal is the one that kills first, and so the one who gets to stay alive a little longer. Do you understand?” Nuthea blinked at the Shadowfinger. It was the most words she had ever heard him say all at once. He clearly knew, and thought, a lot about this subject. None of the others said anything either. They must be as surprised as she was. “I will assume that you do understand,” said Vish, giving them all a withering look. “All that said, there is some advantage to be had by rehearsing certain routines and steps, not because in an actual fight it will be possible to replicate them exactly, but because by rehearsing them strength is built, and because your unconscious memory might mean that small elements of the routines are reproduced in combat by reflex in potentially effective ways. All of you, stand with your feet shoulder-width apart and bend your knees slightly.” They did so. “Now bend your arms at the elbow and make fists with your hands, with your thumbnails pointing up, like this.” They did so. “Good. This will be your first rudimentary practice exercise: punching. Now, with me, twist your fist round and punch the air in front of you, alternating right and left hands. Right! Left! Right! Left!” Nuthea punched the air along with the others, falling into the rhythm of following Vish’s commands easily enough. She had done something similar to this with Evisca, her swordmistress at the palace, when she had been taught weaponry as a teenager, before she had been allowed to handle a blade. It seemed like a fairly basic exercise, but presumably Vish would work up to the more advanced techniques. Just then a bright blazing ball of fire shot past Vish and crashed into the fence several feet behind him, burning a hole in it and setting it on fire. “Oops,” said Ryn. “What in all the hells