| |
––––––––
DONNING HIS ARMOR AFTER choking down a lukewarm bowl of tasteless gruel for breakfast, Dacrith put his helmet on last and closed the visor. He was as anonymous as he could be, but that probably wouldn’t last long. Most fairies knew of him and many had watched him fight in the goblin dungeon countless times. All fae beings could apparently scry the labyrinth when King Lod allowed them to during what passed for daytime in his domain.
Dacrith had perfected his own fighting style after battling so many monsters. His moves were as distinctive as his rare silver-gold hair and gold-flecked eyes. The key to remaining unknown was to alter his style. If it became known who he was before he won the tournament, he would surely be banished back to the labyrinth. Once he was within those dank halls again, he would never be able to escape.
He followed the crowd of warriors and spectators through the rain to an arena that had just been created. Oval in shape, it was gigantic in size. The wooden walls rose high into the air and a domed roof would keep them all safe from the storm. While the spectators headed for a wide gate to the left, the competitors were herded to a much smaller entrance over to the right. An anteroom had been created where the combatants’ names were recorded. They were given a number to wear, then were herded to another large room to the right of the stadium beneath the seats.
Dacrith gave a false name, then took the small bundle of cloth that the frazzled servant shoved at him. Other warriors were donning their numbers and he did the same. He was number one hundred and eleven and there were hundreds more men crowding in behind him. Their numbers were printed on two squares of white fabric that were joined by thick leather straps. The straps rested on his shoulders and the black numerals stood out starkly against the white cloth.
While most of the competitors wore Unseelie suits of armor, others wore their own mismatched armor. Most were recently made from whatever scraps they could find. Without the use of magic to assist them, their armor was ill fitting and fairly useless. They couldn’t be discounted just because they hadn’t been trained by soldiers from the Court. All fae were fast, strong and agile. The incentive to be king drove them to succeed.
The participants who had been registered were directed to line up in neat rows as the tournament began. In pairs, a mixture of twenty warriors, hunters and civilians entered the arena. The others watched through the windows in the waiting area as cheers sounded.
Rows of seats had been erected so thousands of fairies could watch the entertainment. Gigantic magical yellow globes hung near the ceiling, casting light on the ground far below. Windows above them allowed the lightning to flare brightly almost constantly. A balcony had been built at the far end of the building, jutting out slightly over the arena. Asha sat on a throne with the six advisors flanking her.
Dacrith’s breath caught when he saw his future bride. She wore a dark blue gown that made her blonde hair look even brighter than usual. Her eyes scanned the warriors who were facing each other, searching for him, or so he hoped. He had no way of signaling to her, but it was probably for the best. She knew he was there and that he would be fighting for her.
Lord Nicolaia stood and the crowd went quiet. “Let the tournament begin!” he shouted and fresh cheers sounded.
At his signal, the first twenty combatants went into motion. Dacrith watched the men as they attacked each other. The warriors in black armor shared similar fighting styles. Only a few competitors wore their own form of armor. Unsurprisingly, two of the three civilian fighters were defeated quickly. They slunk away towards the losers’ exit with boos and jeers trailing after them. The winners were directed to wait in a room directly across from the area where the next round of contestants were already paired up.
Two warriors were battling it out harder and faster than the others. They were still going at it when the other fights were over. Dacrith could see one of the men was simply toying with the other one. He knew who the grandstander had to be. It would be Tartor, the blue-haired wonder boy.
Prince Sindarian had sent Tartor off to take charge of the soldiers at a distant castle when he’d heard the warrior was becoming a little too big for his britches. If Tartor had remained, he would surely have attempted a coup. Now he was back and it seemed he planned to become king.
Now that they were the only two competitors left, Tartor stopped playing with his opponent. He unleashed a vicious, swift flurry of blows, knocking the fairy’s helmet off to expose his face. His rival screamed in pain when the blade sliced into his cheek. Asha looked away, knowing the spectacle was for her and her alone. Tartor was showing her just how powerful he was. His savagery only made her less inclined to accept him as her husband.
Not content with merely maiming his opponent, Tartor struck again, severing the fairy’s hand. The crowd roared in approval, drowning out the shrieks of agony from the loser. A medic sped over, grabbed the severed limb and gave the victor a frown of disapproval before herding the defeated challenger away.
“Is he going to be able to reattach his hand?” Asha asked Lord Nicolaia.
“Who cares?” he shrugged without taking his eyes off the arena.
“I care,” she replied, but said it so quietly that no one could hear her over the noise of the crowd and the storm. With magic in such short supply, it wouldn’t be easy to repair the worst of the damage that would be done to these men. Their innate healing abilities still remained, but they would need magical help to reattach severed body parts. One rule that was in place was that there could be no killing blows. They feared they might no longer be immortal and that it wouldn’t take much to end their lives. Further deaths would create an even worse imbalance, sending the realm into unceasing chaos.
Tartor took his helmet off and held it up like it was the severed head of his foe. The spectators shouted his name and screamed their support of him. Turning in a slow circle, the warrior came to a stop facing Asha, then smirked as if he’d already achieved victory. She rolled her eyes at his theatrics as he sauntered off to the victors’ area. “This is going to be a long day,” she predicted sourly.
“This contest is in your honor, daughter,” Lod reminded her. He was so short his chair had to be built higher so he could see over the balcony. “It was your idea, after all.” She scowled that he was right and that she didn’t have a comeback.
Wishing he could hear what was going on in the royal balcony, Dacrith smiled beneath his visor when he saw Asha scowling at Tartor. Just as he’d known, the blue-haired warrior was number one. He’d probably bullied his way to the front of the line so he could be the first to sign up. There was no doubt that the fairy could fight, but Dacrith was confident he would win. He hadn’t been nicknamed death for nothing, after all.
Side by side, the next twenty warriors strode out into the arena to take their turns battling each other. Most fights were over quickly and the winner progressed to the next round while the loser was shown to the exit. Dacrith had heard a rumor there were over three thousand combatants who had signed up to fight, which meant the tournament would last for several days at this rate. That was fine with him. It would give him a chance to refine his technique so he didn’t stand out too much. He had to make it all the way to the end without being recognized if he wanted to be seated next to Asha where he belonged.
