Page 4

Chapter Three Bring it on

All Darkhaven was buzzing about the tournament.

Lord Whimsitt had hosted jousts before, but never on such a scale as this—where

in the past there’d be maybe six knights in competition, now there were dozens upon dozens, drawn by the prestige and pageantry

of the Tournament of Dragonslayers.

There were so many knights angling to compete, in fact, that the first week of matches didn’t even count toward the final

tournament brackets, instead serving only to separate the wheat from the chaff.

If an up-and-coming young knight wanted to

compete against the established favorites, he had to first qualify for the opening round by jousting his way into it.

Which meant week one was an absolute bloodbath.

Sometimes literally.

Young, untested knights getting knocked flat in one charge,

while the favorites of the tournament barely broke a sweat—with only the occasional surprise upset.

Still, the crowds flocked

to the lists, because what better way to pass a beautiful late summer’s day than by watching unspeakable violence unfolding

before you for your entertainment?

Plus, there were snacks.

Gwen stood in the changing tent, willing herself to move.

The hum of the spectators was like nothing she’d ever heard before, vibrating in every fiber of her being.

The crowd was like a living creature—like one of the ancient dragons, demanding blood sacrifices to be kept at bay.

She’d snuck into the changing tent an hour ahead of time, making a few trips to carry her armor and her sword.

It had taken her months to get each piece exactly right, requiring her to work between commissions, when her father was asleep.

Countless hours in the heat of the smithy, sleepless nights spent designing and planning, a whole host of new calluses and

burns covering her hands and arms. The hardest she’d ever worked in her life for anything, and Gwen had begun running her

father’s smithy when she was thirteen.

But now that it came time to don the armor and emerge in public as a knight, she found herself rooted to the spot.

Something happening in the lists made the crowd erupt into a roar, quickly tapering off into a groan.

Someone must have been

badly injured to elicit such a universal visceral response.

Outside the tent, Achilles whickered a comment on the crowd.

The sound unfroze Gwen enough for her to turn her head and call

out to him where he waited, already wearing his armor, just behind her tent.

“Hang in there,” she murmured to him—or to herself.

“We can do this.”

Not for the first time, a snide voice in her head demanded to know why she was doing this.

Sneaking into the qualifying round for one ride, only to vanish again afterward, win or lose, would gain

her nothing.

And it risked everything —disgrace, imprisonment, even terrible injury or death.

Or, worse, her father finding out.

And yet, the only thought that had lingered in her mind when the pink-garbed Lady Isobelle had tossed fifteen shillings her

way was that it would buy her entry into the qualifiers.

She could ride, just once , and prove to herself that she was made of something as strong as any of them.

That if only the world were different, she could’ve been a knight.

But all that would require her to actually put on her damned armor .

Gwen swallowed, shutting her eyes.

“Oh daaaang,” came a slightly muffled voice from the next tent over.

“Did you see Darby? He’s got splinters sticking out of

his leg as thick as a dick.”

Gwen froze, listening.

“Um, that’s a massive nope from me,” came a second voice, sounding slightly ill.

Laughter, and the reply: “Dude, what kind of knight feels faint at even the mention of blood? You’re a hundred percent in

the wrong place.”

“He does have a point, you know,” came a third voice.

There were three of them, young knights gathered in one of the nearby changing tents, discussing the events taking place out

in the lists.

Despite her increasing sense of urgency, Gwen found herself tilting her head, leaning closer to the fabric wall

of her own tent in order to listen.

“I’m only here because my dad would totally murder me if I backed out.” The ill-sounding knight gave a drawn-out sigh.

“To

be honest I’m hoping I can just, like, fall off my horse or something before the other guy’s lance hits. Sell it like I got

knocked out honorably, you know?”

One of the other men laughed, though the sound of it was rueful.

“I can’t believe you don’t want to try to win. It’s the Tournament of Dragonslayers , it’s a once-in-a-lifetime kind of thing.” His enthusiasm was puppy-dog-like.

If puppies were also bloodthirsty and talked

about dick splinters.

“Technically,” the third guy interjected, “it’s a once-every-four-years opportunity if you’re willing to travel. It’s just never been here in Darkhaven before.” He had a somewhat nasal tone that gave everything he said a rather pedantic air—like he knew everything, and wanted to make sure all those around him knew he knew everything.

“Not if you get split open and murdered by splinters your first ride,” countered the one with the puppy-dog enthusiasm.

“Uhhh,” said Sir Sickly.

“Put your head between your legs,” suggested Sir Puppydog, his tone somewhat callous.

“Seriously, though. You’ve got to at

least try.”

“Easy for you to say, already through to the tournament proper.” Sir Know-It-All sounded tense.

“Harder to admit you care

when you might not even get to compete.”

“Yeah, but the Dragonslayer tournament. Set aside the prestige, the glory, the prize treasure at the end. Have you seen the girl they’ve got as the sacrifice

this year?”

A pause, and then Sir Know-It-All said slowly, “That good?”

“Unbel ieee vable,” Sir Puppydog replied fervently.

“She may well be the hottest girl I’ve ever seen. What I wouldn’t give to have a crack

at her.”

“So all that bullshit about honor and glory was just that, huh?” Sir Sickly had recovered enough to snap at his companion.

“You’re just in it for dibs on the hot girl?”

“Why not both?” Sir Puppydog retorted cheerfully.

Gwen was torn between being put off by their conversation and being fascinated by this glimpse into the way they talked when

they thought there weren’t any women in earshot.

She’d half forgotten that one of the many favors bestowed upon the winner of the tournament was the opportunity to marry one of the land’s most sought-after bachelorettes, chosen by some arcane process behind the scenes.

Symbolically, she was the dragon sacrifice being offered up to appease one of the ancient beasts.

A few hundred years ago, she’d have been handed over to a dragon to be gobbled up in a ritual believed to keep the dragons from attacking the countryside.

Now, she was being offered to whichever knight won the tournament, one object among many in the prize pot, her whole life

determined by the flick of a wrist in a bloody sporting event.

Gwen wasn’t sure the poor girl wouldn’t have been better off with the dragon.

“I think I know the one you’re talking about,” Sir Know-It-all was saying.

“Isn’t she a bit... forgive me for saying so,

but a bit stupid ?”

Laughter.

“That seems like a good thing to me,” replied Sir Puppydog.

Gwen felt the muscles in her jaw contract, something stirring deep inside her body.

“Seriously, though.” Sir Puppydog wasn’t done.

“So. Fucking. Hot. Tournament or no, I’ve got to take a swing at hitting that.”

“You and every other guy here,” drawled Sir Know-It-All.

“They can have her, just so long as I get there first.” Sir Puppydog’s tone was tense.

There was a roaring sound rising in Gwen’s ears—she longed for something to hold on to, to lean against, something for support.

Bad enough the poor girl was being married off to whoever won the tournament—but to be treated like this, ogled and hunted

and slobbered over like a piece of meat?

Gwen wasn’t used to letting anger win.

She ignored it most of the time, shoving it away into some dark, distant recess of her mind, because anger didn’t matter .

It didn’t solve anything.

It didn’t let her change anything about herself, her life, the world around her.

But just now, the anger wouldn’t let her push it away.

“What’s her name again?” Sir Sickly asked, his voice sounding dim and muffled through the rushing in Gwen’s ears.

“She’s a fixture here—Isobelle, I think. The super-hot blonde. Lady Isobelle, yeah.”

Gwen went still, her mind filling with the image of that blue-eyed girl with the impish smile from the market a few days ago.

Her interest as she inspected the horseshoes.

The knowing glint in her gaze as she talked about Gwen’s father’s wares.

Her laugh. Her...

her momentum as she just sailed in, doing exactly as she pleased, taking charge of everyone around her.

Gwen didn’t hear anything else the knights next door said.

Something red-hot had filled her, rising up from her very bones

to inhabit her muscles and her skin and animate her at last. This time, she didn’t hesitate, strapping on each piece of armor

in turn, letting that red-hot fury soak through the cold metal as it warmed to her body.

The next thing she heard, as she threw back the tent flap and reached for Achilles’s reins with one armored hand, was the

herald standing on his platform by the lists.

“Next to compete in the qualifying round of the jousting tournament is newcomer Sir Gawain of Toussaint, against Darkhaven’s

own Sir Evonwald!”

Gwen barely registered the cheers of the crowd—Evonwald was a local favorite, for all he was starting to get up there in years.

Her field of vision through the slit in her visor was limited, but she swung her head around until she could see the raised platform where Lord Whimsitt presided over the tournament—and where the symbolic dragon sacrifice would sit, watching helplessly as her fate unfolded.

She was there. Blond hair perfectly styled, a dress this time of peacock blue to match her eyes, coolly watching proceedings.

Holding a snack of some kind, surrounded by her noblewomen friends, and managing not to look like all this was building up

to the absolute end of her life.

Gwen had expected to be so consumed by nerves that she’d barely be able to ride.

Instead, she swung up into Achilles’s saddle

as if her armor weighed nothing at all and accepted a lance from one of the tournament lance boys.

She barely noticed riding

up to the start of the lists, barely noticed fitting the end of the lance into the platform on her stirrup.

All her life she’d waited for this moment—and now all she could feel was a fury that had built into a white-hot torrent.

At the other end of the lists was Sir Evonwald on his horse, raising his hand to gesture to the crowd, accompanied by a resounding—if

a bit stale—cheer in response.

Then he turned toward Gwen.

“Sir Evonwald, ready?” the herald cried.

Evonwald slammed his visor down and wheeled his horse around with a flourish.

“Sir Gawain, ready?”

Yes. Bring it on.