The Javelin's attack was blocked by the Shield. His buckler made a soft clunk, as it rebounded off. Beseth watched from behind his Shield, panting. His defender couldn't last much longer, and Beseth had been hit once already, another would certainly take him out. They were cornering him.

Two more discs flew at him from the two teams nearest to his in the circle. His shield reached out, catching the disc from the right side in the pocket of his buckler. Beseth had to dodge the other on the left, being exposed, the disc trimmed with white rubber nearly clipping him on the side. The Javelin on the left was then pegged from behind. While he had been facing Beseth, the Javelin opposite he seized an opportunity. An official upon a stand pipped their flute twice, indicating that the Javelin "broke", Ikri having been hit two times. Ikri took a knee beyond the circle of play, behind the pedestal that upheld his team's pins.

That team still had a Shield, which backed up to defend its remaining two out of three pins. His hands outstretched to guard from both directions. Beseth's team was down one point from the leaders, the lane directly opposite his. That team had seven points over five rounds, this being the final round of the match. Each lane in the circle large circle was separated by another equally sized lane, which was empty. The Javelin positions on either side could enter it, but it would leave them open.

Their team had several options. One would be to play it out. Ikri could get back in after thirty seconds, and the Shield would come forward, opening their pins back up to full view. Unless...

"One and two!" Beseth called to Olemnu, his partner. Olemnu grunted. Pulling three discs out of a chip and into his right hand, he jumped out into the open space to his left, coming closer to the team's pins. He also felt the pressure of eyes fixating upon him- the other teams and the stadium of people watching this qualifier for the final tournament of the season. And he loved it.

Beseth threw two at once, both in the same overhand throw. They bounced off his arm, and he was unable to keep up with both. A pin dislodged out of its peg and made a satifying wooden clank. One disc flicked Beseth's braids, which caused them to flop over his shoulders. It didn't count, but it was unsettling. Another was blocked by Olemnu, who had reached over the lane line with one buckler to protect him. Another clank came from behind him, and Beseth cringed. Beseth tied them for the lead, but the team on the right was coming up, with six. His team also had one left, and once any team had three knocked down, the round would be over.

His Shield backpeddled to defend the pins. Beseth changed directions to face Yuveron, the opposite lane's Javelin. He was one of the best players in the Siege league, right next to Beseth himself. I could still get in even if they win. But they won't. Yuveron came out into the extra lane nearest to Beseth, keeping his Shield at his back. It would protect him from the other Javelin. 

Beseth made his Dismiss sign, sliding his thumb over his index finger and making the "D" sign. He restored his disc supply without calling back the one in his hand, giving him all ten back. He dodged three, stumbling to the grass. Ten seconds left until Ikri came back in. "Watch this!" he laughed to Olemnu, his Shield. 

He took out seven with one sign, coming up onto one knee. He slung them out into the air. The seven went out over the two other Javelins, who expected a downpour, cringing. They hid underneath their Shields, who hovered over them while they took a knee. Beseth took out two more, hammering them over Yuveron's head. They took out one pin. It was never his intention to knock out the other Javelins without taking the lead. He turned towards grimacing Ikri, who was pounding the ground with his foot, anxious to stop Beseth. He didn't give him the opportunity. Placing his last disc through his Shield's shoulder and temple, Beseth knocked down their third pin.

Nine, seven, six, and four. Final score. Round-Match. Beseth, facing the cheering crowd, clapped for himself. Flutes sounded their high pitches, signaling the end of the game. A disc thunked against Beseth's shoulder. Turning, he saw Yuveron walking up towards him. Taking off his mask, Olemnu shook his matted, blonde hair out, falling over his pointed ears. 

"Ever hear of subtlty?" Yuveron said.

"Never." Beseth grinned. 

"I hope you never do, as well."

Olemnu clasped hands with Yuveron. "I'm glad you were across from us, this time. Dischead over here would've stood no chance."

Beseth folded his arms. "I refuse to believe that. I didn't break that entire fifth round."

"And whose job was that? Where would you be without little Olemnu, here?"

"Probably on the ground, being pelted by sore losers." Olemnu said, laughing.

The officials signaled for them to leave the field. They were ushered to a hallway under the seating for the stadium. Field attendants met them at the threshold, collecting the teams' chips, four in total. Then they went out to restore the rest of the discs and clear the field for the next game. Theirs was the semifinal of the qualifying tournament, and another was to be played today. It would set the lineup for the final, two days from now. With such small teams, there were so many eager to play that they had to have qualifying tournaments just for Crown Siege. 

Yuveron and Olemnu bid farewell to each other. Another face joined them at the threshold. The sub. He had a scowl on his face, as usual.

"We won, Buddy. Don't look so glum." Beseth said, ruffling the sub's hair.

He flicked his hand away. "You didn't use me the entire match, and you keep calling me 'buddy'?!"

"Well, you got to sub for me. You know this guy can't stand the thought of losing, even for a round." Olemnu said, stepping into the changing area. There, many of those who had just played took off their equipment. The others were putting theirs on for the next game. Shields took off sweaty, barred helmets, shaking out their tousled hair. Beseth's eyes lingered on the well figured bodies of the men for a moment before coming back to the conversation.

"And yet, you nearly lost to Yuveron!" the sub, Piruwe Rahklan, said. Beseth didn't like saying his name at this point, instead calling him "Buddy". Even if his father was a government official, he wasn't going to be backed into a corner by him. Buddy had to prove his worth, himself, not cling to Beseth's shadow. Olemnu already had. Although he would inherit a "great inheritance", he had shown on many occasions that a person's own greatness had to be earned, not recieved. That way, you added to your family legacy. "If you had subbed, you could have come back fresh. You have to think of the team, for once."

"I'm thinking of the team now. I'm thinking we'll win Crown Siege, because of what I am going to do." Beseth stared down at Buddy.

Buddy scoffed. "If you think your fame will carry you the whole way, fine. But the scorpion of fatigue will soon sting. And I'll be the one to step in."

Beseth pulled open his locker and took out a chip. Signing "Pill", two black orbs fell into his hand, the heat still emmitting from the plasma inside. Cocking his head at Buddy, he set them on his tongue, and they soon dissolved from the saliva. He gulped the liquid plasma down, the pain reliever immediately kicking in. He stood up taller, and smirked. "Not likely." 

Buddy scowled again, and he walked out of the room. Olemnu shook his head. "You know, he may be right. You could stand to let him play for you. He's not bad."

"No, not bad. Just not good enough. I can't afford to sub so late in the tournament. And we're heading into Crown Siege. I've gotten so close every time, and I think this year is our year."

Olemnu nodded. "I can see your point. But I also think that if you let this drag out... You may not want a sub, but if he leaves, then I don't get one either." He placed his hand on Beseth's back for a moment, then walked over to his own locker and sat to take off his pads.

Beseth breathed out his nose. Why was it so difficult for them to understand? He reached into his locker again. His hand settled on several large envelopes someone had slid through the slit of the locker. Inside of them he found ten chips with a note. "Beseth, we hope these find you in good health. Your mother and I love you very much, and have done all we can to keep them at bay for this long. But it seems the time has come, and they will be sending a representative to you within the week. I am sorry, son."

Beseth sat down on the cold stone of the room, surrounded by the sounds of men laughing and snapping wet rags at each other. He didn't want to keep reading. He didn't want to know- he wanted to run back out onto that field. Hesitantly looking down at the paper again, he kept going. "In these ten chips we have provided something for your travels and care. Your will find a tent, small mattress, a chip holster, and enough gold for the other provisions you need. You know that you have access to our Stockpile if you need it. We've given you several empty binding chips as well. You know what to do with them. Carry yourself well, and in all that you do, do it with passion. We trust that much about you! We love you so much, Beseth! Make your country proud!"

He clenched his hands, crumpling the paper and stuffing it back into the locker. Slamming it shut, he stalked off around a set of lockers, intending to sit in a corner. He was four and twenty, and still hid when something bothered him. Like he had asked his parents to help him do when they first recieved word of the mandatory conscription. 

The dark corner of the sconce lit room was already taken. By a player shoving something black down the front of his protective girdle. Beseth spun, his back facing a row, obscuring him from the player. The Javelin had a chip hidden on his person to take into the next game. And Chezyr hadn't noticed Beseth. He pursed his lips. Beseth could turn him in, disqualifying his team from the next match. Unless...

Beseth whipped around the corner, taking Cherzyr by the arm and stifling his cry with his hand over Chezyr's mouth. He held him, shaking in his grasp for a moment. Chezyr looked terrified. 

"Be quiet." Beseth whispered to him. He let him go, Chezyr stumbling back with his fists raised. Beseth made a tsktsk sound, and shook his head. "You're a dirty cheater."

Chezyr's eyes flicked from side to side, but there was no one to hear their low conversation in the loud room. They were enclosed by walls, no one seeing them.

"It isn't like that, Beseth. I promise!"

"And if my hand were to reach down that girdle, what would I find?"

"Nothing!" Chezyr said, starting to sweat.

Beseth laughed, patting him on the cheek. "Let's hope not!" Chezyr blushed. Beseth leaned in. "I hope that you'll give me one last thrill."

"What? No, Beseth, I'm not like that, I-"

"Oh, get your mind out of the gutter. Do what you want with that chip, friend. When we meet in the finals, we'll both have a little something to show each other."

Chezyr relaxed, lowering his fists. "You want to cheat with me?" he said, taken aback.

"I'd like nothing more. I'll go ahead and tell you what I'm going to do, but I'll watch your next match. I'll figure it out on my own. That way, you'll still have an advantage."

"And you won't turn me in before the finals once you figure it out?"

"Only if you lose." Beseth said, his words being met with a gulp from the shorter man. "I don't want to go through the trouble of preparing a way to cheat for no reason. Now get dressed, your match is coming up."