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TARTOR WAS USED TO defeating his enemies quickly and easily. The tournament had given him more of a challenge than he’d had in centuries, but he’d still prevailed without much effort. His current rival was on a different scale to any other fighter he’d ever faced before. Watching number one-eleven in battle had proven that he was wily, he could think on his feet and he was highly skilled. In short, he shouldn’t be underestimated.
Dacrith had watched Tartor closely during his skirmishes and had worked out his style. He’d had the same trainers as the rest of the warriors, so he didn’t stand out for his technique. He was far more brutal than the others, though. He was used to being taller than his rivals, but they were matched in height. It wouldn’t surprise Dacrith if he resorted to using dirty tactics.
His hunch came true when they were only seconds into their bout. Tartor spat directly into Dacrith’s visor when they momentarily came close. Flinching automatically, he barely avoided a sword through his heart. He managed to twist aside, receiving a long scratch on his armor.
That was the first of many cheating attempts the blue-haired wonder used. Dacrith refused to lower himself to the same level. Even the crowd began to notice what Tartor was doing after he was knocked to the ground. When he stood, he threw a handful of dirt at his opponent’s face. Ready for it, Dacrith was already on the move before he could become blinded. He dodged the spray of dirt, then landed a flurry of strikes on his foe.
Staggering back, Tartor had to utilize every skill he possessed to keep himself from being stabbed through the chest. That was all it would take to decide the winner and he was too proud to allow himself to be defeated so easily.
Their fight dragged on for over an hour and both men were beginning to tire. At a particularly loud crack of thunder, Dacrith glanced towards the windows just as fresh lightning flared. Momentarily blinded, he sensed his opponent coming for him, and sidestepped just in the nick of time. He thrust his sword out and it slid through Tartor’s armor and into his chest.
“No,” the warrior breathed in disbelief as he was skewered.
“Yes,” Dacrith taunted and yanked his blade free. “You lose, Tartor.” He turned as the crowd went berserk at his victory. Even the fairies who had bet against him were chanting his name now.
Asha stood to cheer for him as well, but her expression changed to horror. Feeling a sense of doom swell, Dacrith’s innate magic bloomed from deep within. His wings burst from his back, carrying him into the air just in time to avoid being beheaded by a mighty swing from Tartor. Silence fell as the spectators took in the six inch black border around his iridescent wings.
Landing lightly on the ground behind his bewildered opponent, Dacrith shook his finger warningly. “That wasn’t very sporting,” he chided.
Turning to face his rival, Tartor went pale when he saw number one-eleven’s wings had manifested. His own wings only had three inches of black, which meant he was badly outranked. Only two people in this entire realm had ever possessed six inches of darkness and one of them was dead. “You can’t be,” he breathed in dismay as he realized who he was facing.
“But I am,” Dacrith confirmed, then unleashed his fury on the cowardly fairy who had tried to behead him after he’d already been defeated.
Embracing his Unseelie rage, he delivered a lightning fast series of attacks that Tartor never had a chance of blocking. Pierced in multiple places, none of which were deadly, he finally fell to his knees. “I yield, my Prince,” he said, holding his hands up in defeat.
Kicking Tartor’s sword away, this time when Dacrith turned to face the crowd, they were deadly silent.
Up in the balcony, Asha was still on her feet. “What’s happening?” she asked, bewildered by the silence.
“It would appear that death has just won the tournament, daughter,” King Lod informed her in a tone that spoke of dread.
“Did you know about this?” Lord Vanse demanded, addressing the question to Lord Nicolaia.
“How could I?” Nicolaia said in self-defense. “He was wearing a helmet the entire time.”
“Shouldn’t you have recognized him by the way he fought?” Lady Mildra asked shakily.
“He kept changing his style.” Lord Nicolaia was just as shaken as the others, but he was the quickest to recover. “It seems you have your wish, my lady,” he said to Asha and gestured at the lone champion. She glanced into the arena to see Tartor being carried away by the medics. “Your rescuer has prevailed,” he continued. “But I fear your choice of husbands has been a poor one.”
“Why?” she asked with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. A bell had rung deep inside her head when the goblin had called Dalrin ‘death’, but she didn’t want to acknowledge it.
“Come, let’s greet the champion,” Nicolaia said instead of replying.
Leaving the balcony, they descended a set of stairs that took them out onto the arena.
Dacrith waited for the advisors and Asha to come to him. He stood with his sword point resting on the ground and his hands on the pommel. Asha looked nervous and unsure of herself. He realized she still didn’t know who he truly was yet. Everyone else had already figured it out. The timely arrival of his wings had put the mystery of his identity to rest. Jake Everett was her friend and he must have told her about him, but she’d never guessed he was the warrior who had stood at Jake’s side as he’d battled the denizens of the goblin dungeon.
Lord Nicolaia strode forward and bowed. “Your highness,” he said in a neutral tone. “It was clever of you to hide your identity from us. None of us realized who you truly were until you bested Tartor.”
“Lord Nicolaia,” Dacrith replied, voice sounding hollow behind his visor. “Will you and your colleagues contest my right to bond with Asha and take the throne?”
They shared uneasy looks, then shook their heads. “A champion has been decided,” King Lod said in a dour tone. “Congratulations, Dacrith. You’ve managed to not just escape from my prison, but you’ll now become the Unseelie King just as you plotted so many eons ago.”
The blood rushed through Asha’s ears, dulling their voices as the man she’d known as Dalrin took his helmet off and turned to face her. A sigh went through the spectators when they saw his unmistakable silver hair with gold tips. Jake had told her about the warrior he’d befriended in Lod’s dungeon. She just wished he’d described him in detail. “It was all a lie,” she whispered as he opened his mouth to speak.
“Pardon?” he asked instead of whatever he’d been about to say.
“You only pretended to be good because I told you I was going to become the Unseelie Queen,” she said, feeling numb from grief.
“That isn’t true,” he said and took a step towards her.
Holding up her hands to stop him, she saw her skin beginning to turn gray. Everyone else saw it, too and disturbed murmurs spread through the crowd. “Don’t touch me!” she said and began to back away.
“I won the tournament,” he reminded her, staring at her intently through gray eyes that were flecked with gold from the royal bloodline. “I will bond with you and I will be the Unseelie King.”
Devastated that all he cared about was wearing the crown, she turned away and fled towards the closest wall.
“Where are you going?” Lord Vanse called after her with a hint of amusement. “Do you think you can travel through walls?” The spectators tittered, but their hilarity died when she embraced her goblin half.
Dacrith watched in a mixture of fascination and dread when long gray vines burst from Asha’s body. She reached the wall, placed her leafy palms on it and the logs opened outwards, forming a door just large enough for her to fit through.
“After her!” Lord Nicolaia shouted, but it was too late. She stepped out into the storm and the logs closed up again, hiding her from their view.
A brownie Dacrith hadn’t seen since he’d been banished from the palace appeared on his shoulder. “Congratulations,” Bindel said sourly. “You said exactly the wrong thing at exactly the wrong time and now this realm is surely doomed. You might be a Prince, but you’re still a typical dense man.”
As if in agreement, the air was split by thunder so loud it blew out the windows again. Torrential rain poured inside and the fairies fled from the deluge.
“What did I say?” Dacrith asked in bewilderment. The head brownie glared at him, shook her head, then vanished.
