The League

I used to be a pro basketball player.  Back when there was only one league – his league.  You know who I’m talking about – Jose Rosebloom.  The owner of the World Basketball Federation – the WBF.  He’s the one that started fixing the games.  At first, he kept it secret; just paying off the refs to ensure that the more marketable teams would win.  Then, as viewership waned, he started upping the ante.  Soon enough, he implemented automatic scoring baskets and got rid of human scorekeepers.  At the time, it seemed like Jose was simply trying to keep up with technology.  Then, he got rid of most of the referees.  This was another move that he claimed would make the league more sustainable financially.  Unfortunately, more and more obvious calls didn’t get called, because the ref never seemed to be in the right position.  Still, most people were unaware that games were being fixed.  Until those finals, that is.

It was 2045; Sacramento was playing London.  London was the underdog, though they brought in drastically more fans.  Fortunately, so the fans were led to believe, they were able to keep up with Sacramento, and the finals were tied 3-3 going into the final game.  In the fourth quarter, London was losing by two points, and Sacramento had the ball.  That’s when I made my move.  I played for the German national team – it was up to me to make sure that a European team won the Finals.  So, I ran on the court while both teams were on the other end of the court, and I made a three-pointer for London.  Since the referee was on the far side of the court, he never saw what happened.  The entire crowd was in an uproar, and I can only imagine what was happening as people watched the game around the world.  How could this count?  Sure, the score was kept automatically, and so the three points put London ahead, but wouldn’t someone stop the game and arrest me?  I mean, everybody saw it!  But, nothing happened – no replay, no reversed decisions, and no arrests.  I think that’s when a few people wised-up that the game wasn’t as pure as they had always believed.

After that Finals, run-ins became more and more common; especially on televised games.  When the most popular teams played each other, there was rarely a clear-cut victory.  Between “missed” calls, players from other teams running on to the court to “get revenge” against a team that cost them a game, you couldn’t really tell who the best teams were anymore.  Sure, you could see who won the championships, but you didn’t know how good any of their players were.  But, that’s just how the league is.  Nobody really believes it anymore – well, except for kids. 

But, this story isn’t about the WBF, it’s about me.  And, a few years after the original Finals where everyone learned my name, I was scheduled to make another run-in; this time when Paris played against New York.  My team was supposed to get along well with the other European teams, and so I was supposed to help Paris win.  It was the same basic setup – Paris was up by one point in the final game of the championship.  This time, to add extra drama, I wasn’t supposed to run onto the court until there were only two seconds left – and I was supposed to shock the world by helping New York win against Paris.  So, I waited, and I did my part.  I ran onto the court, just in time, and I took my shot.  Unfortunately, it wasn’t a clean swish like the last time – it bounced around the rim… until it was too late.  My shot went in, but the automatic baskets stop scoring at the final buzzer.  My shot didn’t count.  Paris won the championship, despite my efforts. 

I got fired.  Jose said that I was a disgrace, and that if he couldn’t count on me, then he had no use for me.  With nowhere else to turn, I began playing in the illegal street basketball leagues.  The ones that were run by bookies, and the ones where they actually still had multiple refs - where they actually let the skill of the teams determine the outcomes.  Once word got out that the WBF was rigged, people were looking for ways to resume gambling.  At one point, some of the leaders of the street leagues had tried rigging games to make more money, but when people got wind of it, all of the money dried up, so that didn’t last, and they were forced to let the teams actually compete.  I was forced to play the game on my own, and I only got to win if I was better than the other players.  And, as it turns out, I was better than the other players. 

When I realized how good I really was, I started to get paid better; at least compared to the other guys in the league.  But, I wasn’t satisfied.  I didn’t want to be remembered as the guy who got fired from the WBF.  It seemed like no matter how well I did in the street leagues, I couldn’t shake that mental image.  And so, I started doing the stupidest thing I could think of – I started betting all of my money.  Any time I got paid, I’d bet whatever I had on my next game.  Sure, I lost a lot of money, and several times I had to start over, but we got on a winning streak that saw me actually start to make some real cash.  Eventually, I had a few million, and I had an idea.  I saw that the worst team in the league, the Bayside Ballers, had five thousand to one odds that they would win the championship.  And I bet it all on them. Fortunately, there were no real contracts in the league.  So, as soon as I placed my bet, I quit my team; and became a Bayside Baller.  I still didn’t know if I was going to lose all my money, but I had a chance to become a billionaire.  And, though it was a tough season, I made it.  I had $20 billion. 

Well, at least I was owed $20 billion.  But, in actuality, the bookies didn’t have nearly that much cash.  So, they gave me what they did have – ownership of the street league.  Now, I was the most powerful man in the world of real basketball.  My first step was to make the street league legal.  I hated Jose Rosebloom, and I saw my new league as a way to compete with him and to try to take him down.   And, though my league didn’t have the history and the fame of the WBF, I had the distinction that my league was real.  Unfortunately, the WBF had turned basketball into a joke, and so nobody would take us seriously.  We couldn’t get any news publicity.  Even though our games were real, all of the news outlets had stopped covering basketball.

My frustration with the WBF boiled over; as did the frustration of my players.  There were fights between my players and players from the WBF.  There were even occasional death threats.  Though the news wouldn’t report on any of our actual games, these stories made the news.  Everyone heard about our feud, and it escalated more and more until eventually, it happened.  A plane that Jose Rosebloom was piloting went down in the mountains, killing him instantly.  With nobody left to run the WBF, I was able to easily purchase the league and merge it with my own – keeping the best players, and forcing them to actually compete.  There were no run-ins and a full complement of referees was used in each game.  In the wake of Jose’s tragedy, interest in basketball had begun to return.  Jose’s untimely death had been a blessing in disguise for the sport that he had affected so much.  At least, that’s what the news reported. 

And as long as Jose keeps a low profile, we should be able to keep it that way. 

3 Swords, pt 2

Rone the Wanderer sat cross-legged on a rooftop watching starlings flit about a nest tucked into the eaves of a nearby building. The flight of birds was ordered, yet unpredictable. He meditated on this.
"Rone, come down," Dahlia's voice shot up. "Man wants to see you swing your pig-sticker."
Rone meditated briefly on the interruptions Dahlia brought to his meditations.
He dropped lightly onto a rain barrel, then the street. He was tall and muscular, with caramel skin. His clothes were made of a canvas-like cloth, and he wore his dark brown hair close cropped, but with a stripe like a mohawk down the middle.
He looked down on the thin man. Azurdanak held out his hand in the traditional Velden manner. "Greetings sir. Your companion tells me you are fair with sword fighting in the eastern style. I have need of blades and strong arms to wield them. May I see a sample of your skill?"
Rone drew his double bladed straight sword, thin and long, with an iron ring on the pommel, and bowed slightly to Azurdanak. "Please forgive my apparent deficiencies," he said.
Rone commenced a whirling display of swordsmanship with no apparent deficiencies whatsoever. The swirling created a hypnotic pattern punctuated with unexpected hiccups, joint locks, or muscle spasms that altered the flow, popping the viewer out of the hypnotic reverie. Even in these interruptions, Azurdanak noticed a deeper pattern that he just began to decode when the sword flew toward his face.
Azurdanak noted later that he had not seen the Wanderer slip a length of rawhide string tied to his wrist through the iron ring. He had detected no wizardy, so it must have happened quickly, when his attention was diverted.
In the moment he flinched and ducked, but to his credit, refrained from shouting. Rone flicked his wrist and the sword snapped back to his hand. A nice trick that would catch offguard anyone thinking themselves a foot out of steel's reach.
If Rone had meant to menace Azurdanak, his face didn't betray him. He continued his display with the same serene concentration.
One abrupt fluid motion returned his sword to its beaded sheath, breaking the spell of the whirling blade. Azurdanak regained his composure under Rone's placid gaze and Dahlia's smirk.
"Well you're fast. And you certainly look strong enough," he said. "Dahlia, you say he's beaten you?"
"Few others live to make that claim."
"You're hired." Azurdanak rubbed his chin. "The Urugan moot begins in two weeks."
"We won't make the Crosian border in two weeks," Rone observed.
"As I planned," Azurdanak turned to walk away. "I want them drunk-sick and worn down before I arrive. if they're fresh, that makes my job harder." He beckoned to the pair to follow him.
"What is your job, exactly?" Rone asked.
"To slay as many Urugans as possible in single combat."
Rone's brow furrowed slightly. "Intriguing. You know Urugans abhor a fair fight?"
"As do I. That's why I chose Urugans. Dahlia, please explain as I check the wagon. We'll leave before dawn."
"I can't explain, Rone, but the pay is bloody royal," she whispered.
Azurdanak's wagon was well equipped, and his horses fed and groomed neatly.
"Where did you get this?" Dahlia asked. "You came in on a caravan last night."
"No, I came in as part of a caravan. I travel a great deal to places tradesmen don't like to think about. Stow your gear in the back properly please. Either of you know how to drive horses?"
"We're fighters, not teamsters," Dahlia said.
"You'll learn a new trade then. Load up."

The trip to the Crosian border wound through green lands studded with granite boulders, gently sloping downhill all the way. Pitchwolves, fur black as a moonless night roamed the lands, as well as brigands and hungry ghosts. The trio erected mandrake effigies to confuse the ghosts at night, but the other two threats required vigilance.
As they rode, they told stories, as travelers do, and compared styles as sword fighters do. Rone demonstrated more of his wavering way technique--a purposely wobbly stance that caused Azurdanak to constantly re-evaluate his geometry. He demanded Rone repeat kata steps, and Rone obliged, but there remained offbeat about the style that Azurdanak couldn't pin down.
Azurdanak demonstrated further displays of his fencing style replete with drawings sketched in the dirt demonstrating the geometry and anatomy of humans. There are a finite number of ways that humans can do significant damage to each other, he explained. Memorize them, study them, counter them, and you become undefeatable.
Dahlia laughed at their airs. "There's nothing to show when there's nothing on the line," she said. "You both think too much. Just pull steel and fight."
Rone chuckled. "There is more to her technique than her brag."
"I know you are right," Azurdanak replied. The bruise on his arm was still black and sore. "But she'll meet a sooner end than you or I."
"I very much doubt that," Dahlia said. "Your fool's task will have me burying you by week's end, I'd wager."
"I'll take that bet," said Azurdanak.
"Not with you," she said, tossing a pebble at him. "I'll take all of your money when you're dead anyway."
"Good to know it will land in safe hands."
"I'll drink to you with a penny of it."
"A penny? At least buy a round for the house!"
"Eh... We'll see how we'll you fare in this fight you're going to pick."
"You will indeed! But let me warn you now: Do not interfere in one-on-one combat. Even if the fight goes badly for me. Only intervene when I am outnumbered... And even then, stay your blade if I seem untroubled."
"I hate to pass up a good fight, but I usually won't say no when someone pays me and tells me not to work, eh Rone?"
Rone was watching bugs on a tree branch and appeared not to hear her.
"Why are you hellbent on dying alone anyway?" She continued.
"I am not. I would rather not be here at all. But I must triumph alone or die trying. And since I plan to live, that leaves one option."

The Storm

I used to be safe – normal, even.  But, who is normal anymore?  Nobody I know.  I remember a time before this, though.  My life was ordinary; most of the time I’d just be sitting around with my neighbors.  Occasionally, some stranger would take me out and flip through my pages.  Sometimes, even, they’d take me home and I’d be on a grand adventure; though this happened much more often when I was younger.  Back then I foolishly thought that I’d be going on adventures all the time.  But then, as I began to age, they eventually moved me to a new home with new neighbors.  I couldn’t see outside any more, but at least I was safe.  People would still occasionally pick me up and take me on adventures.  They’d read through my pages, and I’d feel like I was fulfilling my purpose.  It was wonderful. 

Then the storm hit.

I had never seen outside before, without being guided by a human.  I guess that’s not completely true – when I was very young I was next to a window.  And, even once or twice on the adventures of my youth, I found myself sitting alone wherever my current human friend had placed me.  But, even then I felt safe – I knew that they would come back and find me.  So, the day the storm hit, I was completely unprepared.  I didn’t know what to do; and really, there wasn’t much I could do.  Suddenly, the roof tore off of my home, and all of my friends and neighbors started panicking. 

In an instant, we were all outside – and this wet stuff was falling all around us!  Now, you humans might not think that this is a big deal.  If you get wet, you’ll just dry back off, right?  But not so for us books – when we get wet our pages get all wrinkly.  This happens to you, too, if you stay wet too long.  But, though your skin flattens back out, we are never the same.  And, even worse, if we stay wet too long, we might have some of our pages stick together; and the scariest thing of all, we might get the black plague! 

But, this storm wasn’t just the wet stuff.  Something strange was happening, and suddenly I was in the air like someone had picked me up.  But, there were no humans around.  I was simply flying!  I got dizzy very fast as I couldn’t control myself.  My pages flapped around like they were being pulled by some unknown force, and I lost track of how long this continued.   I may have even blacked out once or twice – but maybe I just try not to remember all of the terrifying details.  Eventually, I crashed to the ground, tearing up my face pretty badly when I did.

There was no arrogance left in me – simply fear.  I had been on so many adventures, but I wanted no part of this one.  I already had scars on my face, and my pages were wrinkled – some of them even sticking together.  I hadn’t succumbed to the black plague yet, but I felt that it was just a matter of time.  As I lay there, I didn’t know what to expect.  My greatest hope was that someone would come by and recognize me, tattered and bruised, and they would rescue me.  But, really, what were the chances of that?

Eventually, the storm passed, and the wet stuff stopped.  After hours that seemed like days, I even started seeing humans walking around.  (I didn’t see any of them during the storm – maybe it scared them, too.)  As they walked, most of them saw me and just kept going.  I could see them look at me, but I was simply not wanted.  But then, she came along.

“What’s this?” She said, bending to scoop me up.  I had never seen a lovelier young lady in all of my life.  I’m no judge of what people ought to look like, but this girl didn’t dress like any of the people that I had met on my past adventures.  Instead, she seemed a bit dirty and scarred like me.  “I’ve always wanted this one!” she exclaimed as she turned me over – no doubt assessing my injuries.  Then, she gently tucked me away among various cans and bottles and began to push us along in her small vehicle. 

I was still concerned about getting the black plague, but now that I had been picked up, I had a glimmer of hope.  But, my pages were still stuck and wrinkled, and so I knew that she still might get rid of me – and what were the chances that I would be able to try again?  But, as it grew darker, I felt her warm hand gently pulling me out from among the bottles, and she very gently opened my cover.  I blinked some, as I hadn’t been able to see in quite some time, and I saw that there was a fire going nearby, which let me warm up – and then dry off.  As she turned the pages, she would find my stuck pages.  Instead of forcing them apart (which would have left me scarred and useless), she very gently separated them; making sure that each page was completely in tact.  She was like a doctor healing all of my wounds, while still enjoying my story bit by bit.  Eventually, she came to the end.  All of my pages were separated and dry.  “Oh!  I love it,” she said to herself.  I wasn’t nearly as beautiful as I once was, but I had found a new home.  I might not have as many adventures as I had before, but I had the thing that mattered – a true friend that loved me in spite of my appearance.  I wouldn’t trade her to have new pages, glorious adventures, or anything else.

3 Swords, pt 1

"When the horn sounds, begin combat. Draw your swords."
An athletic woman drew her broadsword and flexed her left hand within its mailed gauntlet. On the sword fighting circuit, she was called Dahlia or Mailfist or names more opprobrious.
Her opponent, a thin, pale-skinned man clapped his hands before him and spoke in a forgotten tongue: "By the nine arms of Ilderleth, Belen-Tul-qoth, revek anderlath." In his right hand appeared an eldritch blue energy, shaped like a rapier. No one knew his name. He'd arrived with a caravan last night and smelled of foreign spices.
A small crowd ringed the fighters, facing off in the cobbled town square. Money changed hands when the man conjured his sword. Magic was still little known in these parts, feared or revered. Dahlia felt neither. She spat on the cobblestone grit. The horn bayed.
She sprang forward, testing her foe with a quick step and a lunge. He parried; the blue rapier redirected her sword down and across her body. She followed through with a spinning backfist that caught him on his left arm. She was stronger than she looked, and he staggered under the punch.
Traveling with her momentum, Dahlia spun again and brought the sword down on his gaunt frame.
But this time, the thin stranger had moved. The flat of her blade skittered on the square's cobblestones and she looked up to see him maneuvering around her left, keeping a closer eye on the gauntlet now.
She returned to a ready stance as he circled behind her. "Don't expect magic tricks to save you, scarecrow," she taunted.
"I won't need them for this instance." he said.
This time he came at her, a flurry of jabs and stabs that her larger blade only barely fended. He was quick, and always stayed just a handsbreadth outside her reach to counterattack. The metal sword clanged and the eldritch blade sizzled faintly. The crowd cheered! A magic sword! A stranger! A local favorite!
The fighters circled and clashed for over two minutes--as good as an hour on the circuits. Someone was usually too slow or drunk to last this long.
After seven minutes, the cheers had died down. General sentiment seemed to be that Dahlia should have finished it by now. A magic sword wielded by a stranger was intriguing, but the thin man had no panache. He fought with precision, exceptional stamina, and zero showmanship. Dahlia was an exciting figure to watch, but the thin man seemed to suck excitement out of sword fighting. Outside the circle, interested flagged.
Inside the circle however, both participants were tightly involved, sweating, breathing heavily from the exertion. The man was wise to Dahlia's gauntlet, but still took an occasional rough poke from it. Every time she tried it though, he stabbed at the opening she created. She recovered, but after the third time, it was clear that he was intentionally taking the tradeoff. He wasn't doing real damage, but repeated pinpricks wear on a fighter. She needed to end this soon.
She summoned a sudden burst of energy and flew at him with a scream. For perhaps the first time since the fight began, he stood instead of maneuvering. At the last possible moment, he took one great step back and to his left, and stuck out his rapier. Her neck stumbled into the tip of of it, and she wheeled her arms to stop from going any further.
"Winner!" cried the horn blower. "Dahlia do you yield?"
The thin man opened his hand and the magic rapier vanished in a blue flare. "She does," he said. "I need her sword."
The thin man collected his winnings--he had bet substantially on himself--and beckoned her to follow him to the inn.

Inside the main room of the dark-timbered inn, he had the one-thumbed innkeeper beat some drunkards away from a table and bring two mugs of mead. He nursed his as he spoke. Dahlia drained hers and shouted for another. "You've got my attention, Stick Arms. What do you want?"
"My name, since you asked, is Azurdanak. I will take a short trip in the very near future. I need a bodyguard and you are clearly the second-best sword fighter in the area."
"Second? I could take you on a different day, Stick Arm."
"Not under controlled conditions," he said mildly.
"Why you think that?" She was nearly done with her second drink.
"You're sloppy and unprincipled. I assumed at first that I'd exploit your obvious Benvenuti Opening and win quickly. However, you're talented, and quickly adapted, so I had to drop back to the Kazanskov Concourse which ultimately bested you.
"In short, since your countenance informs that you are not following the discourse, you're competent--and unorthodox--so I underestimated you. But I was in no danger of losing to you."
Dahlia rose. "I have other business than looking up your nose."
He grabbed her sleeve. "I will pay forty crowns."
She grinned down at him. "Why didn't you say you were desperate? Show me some glint and insult me more, Stick Arm."
"I wasn't insulting -- I didn't mean to insult you. I'm sorry for whatever I said."
"It's all right," she said relaxing back into her drink. I've been fighting all afternoon. You just show up, study my style, and step fancy until I make a mistake? That's not a real fight. No way you're better than me." She finished her mug.
Azurdanak pursed his lips. "No, I'm definitely superior. But let's not get bogged in irrelevanc--."
"Oh, this is relevant," she said. "This is godsall pertinent is what this is."
"Well we won't settle this by raising voices in an inn. We'll fight again when you're rested and we'll see."
"You'll see my boot on your throat. Now show me some money and buy me another drink."
Azurdanak pulled a gold crown from his purse and bounced it on the table. "I won 40 crowns betting against you. You may have it all if you'll look out for my interests for the next three to four weeks."
Dahlia caught the coin on the bounce. "Tell me the job."
"A yearly conglomeraton of Urugan barbarians meets near the western border of Crosia. They gather and drink and fight. The fighting is my primary interest. I intend to duel as many as I can."
"What do you need a hired sword for then?"
"Two reasons. First, West Crosia is dangerous territory, and I need someone competent--and unorthodox--watching out while I travel. Second, I intend to win all of my fights by killing my opponents. The savages will not object to my slaying scattered rabble, but after a number of victories, I expect them to become testy. They are superstitious and will naturally suspect my mageblade the reason, not superior skill. When it is time to depart, I'll likely need help taking my leave."
"I know about Urugans," Dahlia said. "They value a good fight and hate losing. As good as I am, you'll need another sword."
"That can be arranged. But this tournament is a sorry mob. I haven't seen anyone else I'd put against an angry Urugan."
"You haven't seen Rone."