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WITH SO FEW COMBATANTS left, the warriors whittled their numbers down to fifteen after the next round. They’d taken a short break for lunch, but the next group were about to face each other. One man had to be chosen to sit this round out since there were uneven numbers. The fairies in charge moved into a huddle and decided to pick Tartor. He sulked at missing out on maiming another opponent and the crowd booed in disappointment. They’d decided he was too risky to send out unless they absolutely had to allow him to fight.
From the increasingly deafening volume of rain, they had no time left to waste. Instead of having individual fights as they’d planned, all fourteen warriors were sent out into the arena. They stood in their chosen pairs, ignoring the rolling thunder and flashes of lightning that flared brightly through the windows that sat above the spectators.
Dacrith’s opponent turned out to be as skilled as he’d expected from the few warriors who were left. He managed to defeat the fairy without either of them receiving any dangerous wounds. When the round was over, there were just eight challengers in total, including Tartor.
They were given a short break before being paired up again. When that round was over, there were just Dacrith, Tartor and two others left. Dacrith knew his final fight would be with the blue-haired grandstander, but after another rest, he focused on his second last foe. They’d trained together long ago, not that the fairy knew it. Dacrith recognized his eyes before he closed his visor. He’d left his own visor down as usual.
“When you defeat me, make sure you don’t lose to Tartor,” the warrior said so softly that Dacrith had to strain to hear him. “You belong on the throne, my Prince,” he added.
Shocked that another person had recognized him, Dacrith didn’t allow himself to become distracted. Although he knew he was going to lose, his rival didn’t make it easy for him. Their swords clashed and they became locked in an intense battle that made everyone and everything else fade into the background.
It was almost a pleasure to fight men who had the same training as him rather than the monstrous beasts he’d encountered in the labyrinth. Dacrith was distantly aware when the other combatants defeated their foes, clearing the arena for the final two fighters. Shaking his head to avoid sweat running into his eyes and ruining his vision, he sensed his opponent lunging at him. He spun away from the blow that would have ended their fight. Behind the warrior now, he kicked his legs out from beneath him, tumbling the fairy to the ground.
Rolling over onto his back, the warrior held his hands up in defeat when he found Dacrith’s sword aimed at his face. “I yield,” he said loudly and the crowd cheered in response. Holding his spare hand out, Dacrith helped the warrior to his feet. “It was a pleasure, my Prince,” his challenger murmured before picking up his sword and leaving the field.
Dacrith turned to see Asha was on her feet, clapping in excitement. He bowed deeply and a shower of flowers landed on the ground from the female spectators. He turned to see Tartor glowering at him from the victors’ room. Clearly, he wasn’t happy that the mysterious number one-eleven was going to be his final opponent. Dacrith, on the other hand, couldn’t have been happier. He’d known all along it would come down to the two of them. Tartor was the most vaunted fighter in the Unseelie realm, but not even he could defeat death.
The head organizer strode out when Dacrith left the field. He had to wait for a break in the thunder to speak. “There you have it,” he shouted, straining to be heard by all. “We have our two remaining warriors. After a rest to allow number one-eleven and Tartor to recuperate, we will have the final battle that will decide who will be our King!”
Roaring and stamping their feet in approval, half of the spectators called out Tartor’s name and the rest chanted Dacrith’s number. The pair stood at opposite ends of the room with several officials between them. It was no secret that the fighters shared a mutual animosity. It was their job to make sure no blood was shed before the final bout.
Taking her seat again, Asha felt almost giddy with excitement. Dalrin had shown how superior he was to the other fairies when he’d spared his opponent a grievous wound. He’d gallantly helped the defeated man to his feet and had allowed him to walk away with his dignity intact. Maybe being exiled from the Unseelie Court had been the best thing that could have happened to him. He’d been away from their evil influence and had been given a chance to become his own man. One thing was clear, he was different from the others and now everyone knew it.
“So, daughter,” King Lod said as snacks and beverages appeared, courtesy of the hardworking brownies. “You must be pleased that your beloved number one-eleven has made it to the final round.”
“I never had a doubt that he would,” she replied. “Dalrin will defeat Tartor. You’ll see.”
“We’ll all see soon enough,” Lady Mildra muttered dourly. A rumble of thunder sounded, making the stands shake alarmingly. “That’s if the storm doesn’t drown us all,” she added.
The two remaining contestants were given an hour to rest. During that time, the rain, thunder and lightning increased. It was as if the very realm itself was reacting to the tournament. It was gaining intensity in sync with the tension that was growing among the spectators.
When it was finally time for him to return to the arena, Dacrith took a deep breath, then sauntered out onto the field as if he didn’t have a care in the world. In truth, his gut was churning and sweat was already dripping down his spine. After untold eons of punishment for his ambition to rule, he’d finally gained his freedom. The last time he’d attempted to take the throne, he’d been exiled. If he failed this time, it wouldn’t be just him who would be punished. The entire fae world would pay the price.
“No pressure,” he murmured as he took up his position opposite Tartor. Arrogance emanated from his opponent. Dacrith possessed something his foe would never have; desperation to succeed. Winning wouldn’t just mean being bonded to Asha and becoming king. It would be his redemption from being banished and subjected to the indignity of fighting for the pleasure of the Court.
The official strode out onto the field and turned to address the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he shouted over the thunder. “It is time for the final round. I give you Tartor and the mysterious warrior known only as number one-eleven!” Apparently, the fairy who had given him his number had scribbled his name down so badly that it was illegible.
Cheers rang out, momentarily drowning out the noise of the storm. Tartor wore his customary sneer as he came face to visor with his opponent. “Are you ready, mystery man?” he asked.
“Are you?” Dacrith shot back.
“I’m ready to win, peasant. Be ready to lose and to return to the obscurity you crawled out from.”
Smirking at Tartor’s pitiful attempt to intimidate him, Dacrith paused to bow to Asha as his opponent saluted her with his sword. Asha only had eyes for her rescuer. She blew him a kiss and his heart swelled. He was smiling as he turned back to the final man who stood in his way of victory. Their battle wouldn’t be easy, but losing wasn’t an option.
