I walk with Unach and Azmar part of the way, but I have to defer to all trollis in the narrow corridors, so I quickly lag behind. Caste designates seating as well, so I’m not able to sit with anyone I know. Unach has participated in the caste tournament twice, both times challenged by lower-ranking trollis. She won both contests. My earlier assumption proved correct; Azmar has never participated, and I find myself inspired by that. For a man—trollis—raised in a militant society, he’s never once taken the bait to harm another for his own benefit.
At least, not in the tournaments.
I try not to think about his scar.
Bodies pack the bridge and its surroundings. I see no other humans in attendance, so trying to find a seat that doesn’t break any laws proves tricky. Admittedly, it crossed my mind to help Perg out. He has an unfair disadvantage against full-blooded trollis, and using my ability to whisper trepidation to his opponent could even the playing field. But the council might suspect foul play, and I can’t risk getting kicked out of Cagmar. Or worse, hurting Perg. If he were caught cheating, he might lose the Nethens title he worked so hard to earn.
I remind myself that I should have faith in him. And I do. A few silent prayers to the stars rise from my thoughts as I weave through straggling trollis.
I search for the Plebs, who fill tall seats on the east end of the bridge, some on the canyon lip itself. I cannot sit with them, so I linger where I won’t get in trouble, searching for the best vantage point. Fortunately, I’ve honed my climbing skills over the last month, and I find a place under one of the bridge’s arches.
The first challenge is between an Alpine and a Supra. Both trollis are enormous, easily eight feet tall and as thick as the columns in the training room. The Alpine wields a heavy sword and a club; the Supra, who gets cheers from the audience, hefts a spear and a long-handled axe. I recognize him from the council: Ichlad, who was the most adamant about ejecting me from the city. He looks so much more vibrant, more dangerous, in the sunlight.
The sun glints off the trollis’ weapons, emphasizing their sharp edges. I second-guess my coming here; I don’t have the stomach for true violence. I hold my breath as the combat begins and find myself often looking away.
I will stay for Perg’s battle, cheer for him, and then slip back into the city.
Bluish trollis blood spills on the bridge, but the fight lasts only a minute or two. The Alpine surrenders, raising empty hands and naming the Supra the winner. Both are able to walk away.
A Montra and an Alpine claim the next match, and the Alpine wins. The next is the same, only the Montra wins and the Alpine has to be dragged away by medics. He will survive, but the memories of my bruises—recent and long past—come to life as I watch.
I turn away from several of the contests. The lower-caste trollis are more desperate, their tactics more gruesome. No sense of chivalry exists between combatants—indeed, I cannot decipher any rules at all. One fight unravels with such violence that I plug my ears, and when I dare to look, both trollis have fallen. I’m not sure who will be named the victor, or whether there even is one.
I’m taking deep breaths to calm my roiling stomach when the announcer finally calls Perg. I stand and crane my neck, watching as he strides onto the bridge, his chin high and shoulders square. My heart twists at the sounds of laughter rippling through the crowd. A few trollis even jeer and spit names at him. Perg ignores them.
Please, gods, stars, give him this win. Give him a rank so he can feel loved.
A Deccor steps forward to meet him, and my knees threaten to buckle. The trollis is nearly the size of that first Supra. His stomach juts out like a pregnant woman’s, but his arms ripple with muscle. His neck is as thick as his head, and his tusks are enormous, though the point of one has been severed. His shaved head gleams in the sunlight, and his hand bears a wicked sword, similar to Unach’s.
I peer up into the stands and search for her, but she’s lost among waves of gray and green. Azmar as well.
Nearby, the Plebs start whispering. Trollis currency consists of uncut gems of various sizes, and a few exchange hands as bets are placed. If I had one, I would put it on Perg’s name, in the hope that he would feel my support.
I supplicate the heavens one more time. Please let him live.
The fight starts suddenly. I blink, and the two trollis lock in combat. The height difference between Perg and his foe measures the same as between Azmar and myself. I can only assume that is why the Deccor agreed to fight a half human; he will obviously win, and have an extra bead to bolster his rank.