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TAKING HER SEAT IN the balcony, Asha tried to hide her anticipation at seeing Dalrin again. She had to endure a dozen rounds, including Tartor’s, before it was finally his turn. It wasn’t easy to keep her expression neutral when her rescuer strode out onto the arena. Twenty pairs of fighters emerged from the waiting area, but she only had eyes for the man wearing number one-eleven.
Taller than the others by a couple of inches, Dalrin faced his opponent with calm poise. His face was hidden behind his visor, but he turned his head and she knew he was looking at her. She almost let out a shout of warning when the other fairy didn’t wait to be given the signal to begin. His sword lashed out, but Dalrin blocked it and shook his finger warningly. Laughter rang out, then the signal came and the fighting began.
Keeping her eyes on Dalrin, Asha admired how fluidly he moved. His style was similar to theirs, but it was clear he was far more skilled in combat than they were. She wondered how he’d managed to keep up his sword practice while he’d been exiled for so long.
The pair exchanged rapid blows, metal clanging on metal. Asha’s heart lodged in her throat when Dalrin was cut on the thigh. He limped for a few seconds before his wound and armor healed. His focus became razor sharp and he unleashed a flurry of swings. Too fast for his opponent, he knocked his sword away, then pierced the fairy through the chest. Weapon falling from his hand, his defeated challenger sank to his knees.
Dalrin stepped back, waited for the fallen warrior to be carried away, then bowed to Asha. Biting her bottom lip to control the smile that wanted to break free, she inclined her head in return. A few cheers sounded for the hunter as he made his way to the winner’s area.
When the walls closed around him, cutting off his view of the crowd, Dacrith let out a quiet sigh of relief. He’d become complacent and had been distracted when fighting his latest opponent. While the cut on his thigh had hurt, it had been a reminder that he would now be battling more experienced men. Men who were determined to win so they could bond themselves to his future queen.
Tartor had won his first round easily. He glowered at Dacrith from the far end of the room. The winners were clustered together, murmuring about the current batch of fighters who were doing battle. They all knew they would have to face each other at some point as their numbers were whittled down.
After lunch, it was time for their second round of fighting. Dacrith watched Tartor easily defeat his foe again. He was fast, vicious and ruthless. The crowd roared and he once again took his helmet off and held it up in victory as he turned in a slow circle. When he was facing Asha, he saluted her with his sword mockingly. Her face was stony as she stared down at him without acknowledging him. The warrior turned his back on her insolently and sauntered back to the victors’ area. He shot a triumphant look at Dacrith, who was making his way to the fighters’ waiting area along a curved hallway.
Shaking his head that Tartor was so inept at understanding how women worked, Dacrith stood with the other band of competitors to wait for his turn. Their battles were going to become far more challenging tomorrow. They would be expected to face four enemies in total. Overnight, the storms had become worse and they all sensed their time was running out. A champion had to be decided before the realm fell utterly into chaos.
When it was time for his second round, Dacrith was faced with a fast, wily hunter wearing mismatched armor. His style was different from the warriors, but he was no less skilled. Dacrith adjusted his method to suit his opponent, matching his footwork. He was taller, stronger and had a greater reach. He’d also had far more practice at fighting than anyone else in the arena.
While it wasn’t easy to defeat the hunter, Dacrith finally got the upper hand and speared him through the stomach. It wasn’t an automatically killing blow, but his rival knew he was bested. Their fight had taken longer than the others and again Dacrith was the last man standing. He bowed to Asha and she allowed herself a small smile as she bowed back. Some of the female courtiers giggled inanely. A few tossed flowers down into the arena in tribute to his skill.
The prince walked into the victors’ room wearing a smile behind his visor. He was one step closer to achieving his goal. No one was going to stand in his way of becoming king.
Leaving the arena when the fighting was done, Dacrith heard footsteps approaching from behind. He drew his sword and spun around to find himself surrounded by five black clad warriors with Tartor leading them. The blue-haired warrior pushed his visor up and sneered at him. “We’re all curious, one-eleven,” he said as two of his cohorts circled around behind his rival. “We’ve never seen anyone with quite your style before. Where exactly did you train?”
“Here and there,” Dacrith replied vaguely.
“Take your helmet off,” Tartor ordered. “Let’s take a look at the man who thinks he’s going to bed and wed the dryad.” The others snickered, proving they were the warrior’s lackeys.
“I’ve told you you’re not my type,” Dacrith said with exaggerated patience.
“Hold him,” Tartor barked and the two fairies who had sidled around behind Dacrith tried to grab him.
Spinning around, Dacrith lashed out with his left fist and punched the closest warrior in the face hard enough to drop him to his knees. He used the pommel of his sword to knock the other one out, then sidestepped just in time to avoid Tartor’s sword being rammed through his back.
“Cut it out, you lot!” the fairy in charge of the fighters shouted as he came running over. He made a tsking sound as the two men Dacrith had knocked down climbed to their feet. “There’ll be no fighting outside the arena,” he said sternly.
“You have no authority over us,” Tartor said sullenly, but sheathed his sword.
“I can disqualify you from the tournament if you refuse to obey the rules,” the official threatened. Tartor sneered at him, then signaled for his minions to leave. He went with them, casting dark looks at Dacrith on his way past.
“You’re lucky I decided to follow Tartor, my lord,” the official said in a low voice when they were out of earshot. “I had a feeling he was going to try something like this.”
“I am not a lord,” Dacrith replied.
“I know who you are, ‘death’,” the other man said dryly. “I might not be able to see your face behind that helmet, but I’ve watched you fight often enough to recognize the way you hold your sword.”
Sucking in a breath, Dacrith’s hand tightened on his weapon. “How many people know who I am?” he asked.
“Just me, so far,” the official replied. “Don’t fear, I won’t divulge your identity to anyone.”
“Why not?” It was hard to trust a man he didn’t even know.
“It’s obvious the tournament is going to come down to you and the blue-haired wonder boy. Tartor would be a horrible King, even if he is being guided by the advisors.”
“And you believe I would make a better King?” Dacrith asked.
“I hope so, or all will be lost.” With a pointed look up at the roiling storm clouds, the official turned around and hurried back towards the arena.
Bemused by their exchange, Dacrith continued on towards the inn, stopping long enough to pick up Hexam on the way.
