Page 25 of To Touch A Silent Fury (The Bride of Eavenfold #1)
A group of squires blew their trumpets, and the horns signalled the entry of Prince Cratollan, the heir to the Scentlands throne and Brascillan’s older brother.
Lord Ravillin, the last winner, walked just behind him.
The crowd fell quieter, some sporadic shouts of support infrequently punctuating the clanking of armour.
Cratollan had opened the joust, and now, he would introduce the final battle of the Laithcart Games.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the Triad, it is time for the finale of the twenty-third Laithcart Games.” The crowd erupted into a brief burst of clapping and hollering, before once more awaiting the words.
“These twenty-six have qualified for the final bout. Only one will win. The victor of the Laithcart Games will be decided here today, and with it, the winner of a full span of bounty for his household.”
A few of the men looked at me then, as if to remind themselves of the other prize of this fight, of the person they sought to win alongside their wines and grains. Another commodity for their houses.
“May you all make raucous noise for Lord Ravillin, who has been the Master of the Isle for the last span, and today will honourably give over the title.”
The arena erupted in noise as Ravillin bowed low and deep; they clapped and stomped their feet, their enthusiasm almost carrying me with it before I remembered what was at stake for me. The noise only made my nervous heart feel even louder, and I shifted even closer to the edge of my seat.
“Men may yield by saying the word or tapping the ground three times with their hand. Yields must be accepted with no hesitation, and the yielded must leave the arena immediately,” he stated, turning in a circle as he met every man’s eyes.
“The last man who remains here alive, and unyielded, has won the Games.”
Prince Cratollan raised his hands. “On the third horn, you fight. Fight quick, fight clean, fight honourably.”
Then he clapped once, and the arena roared as he walked out of the arena. The squires lifted the horns to their mouths, and my breath caught. This was it, it was about to happen.
The squires blew the first horn, and all the men fell into their positions, knees bent as they watched the men closest to them. My heart pounded as I scanned each one, as if somehow by looking at them, I could see what was about to happen.
I grabbed Thread Ersimmon’s hand as the second horn sounded. He held it back as he stared into the arena with iron focus. I clenched my toes in my slippers as I waited for it to start.
With the third horn, the fight began.
The men threw themselves at one another and ran so fast I could barely register what was happening. The sun peeking through the overcast sky bounced off arcing swords and polished shoulder pads.
I hardly knew where to look. I saw Brascillan round and duck as two men from the Tastelands joined forces to take him down.
He felled one with one swoop of his sword, who grabbed his arm and yielded immediately.
The other jumped back, dodging the prince’s follow-up blow and parrying the next.
Lord Dranislan was already on the ground but not giving up as he rolled away from a dangerous blow.
Lord Stalligin stayed exactly where he was, calculating the field. None had approached him.
Within a matter of seconds, a span of men were down.
A minute after that, only fifteen remained.
Half of those were locked in a scuffle, like Brascillan and the same second Tastelander who had jumped him from the start; others had picked off their opponent and now moved in circles as they watched.
They reminded me of the carrion birds back home, circling a corpse before finally diving on it.
Brascillan spun, and his opponent lost his balance and landed heavily on his back.
The prince leapt to him, his blade at the man’s throat before he could even draw breath.
I could not hear his yield over the noise of the arena, but I saw his lips move, and the prince allowed him to stand and leave the arena.
The Lord of Lavendell turned, and within the same breath he ducked as Lord Stalligin’s narrow blade missed the gap between his helmet and his armour by an inch and clattered uselessly against his steel. I gasped. If the sword had met true, Prince Brascillan would have died right then.
Instead, he thrust his arm out to block the heavy arc of Stalligin’s next swipe.
It was clumsy, but it kept him alive long enough to keep his balance, and their duel commenced in truth.
Both jumped back as they regained their breath.
Stalligin had lost his element of surprise, and now he would have to rely on his speed.
I took a breath and scanned the rest of the field just as Lord Dranislan failed to dodge a wicked blow.
The blade cut deep into the gap in his armour beneath his arm, and he fell to the dirt.
I stood as I tried to cover my mouth and found only glass beads.
His blood spilled out, filling the pockets of mud like rainwater.
He gasped as his competitor raised his helmet.
Count Fordonne, staring down at the young Tastelands lord with what I could only guess to be surprise.
He hadn’t expected his blow to land as it had.
Lord Dranislan was dead a few seconds later, his eyes wide to the sky as he gasped a final breath and his body stopped moving.
Count Fordonne pulled his helmet down and turned, staring through his shadowed helmet at those who were left.
I counted eleven. One was a freshly minted killer, even if accidental. One a practised killer, I thought, looking as Stalligin dove away from Brascillan.
Three more yields in half a minute.
Blades whirled, yells sounded, and it all became an overwhelming blur. Every time I focused on one bout, another had ended. Within three more minutes, the arena was nearly empty again.
Only four men remained.
Fordonne, Brascillan, Stalligin, and Sparrospen.
My heart was in my throat.
Two Scentlands lords. One Sightlands. One Tastelands.
What nation of the Triad would hold me for the rest of my days? Where would my children grow up? Who would their father be?
Then a noise sounded. One so different from the clangs of metal that it made the fighters pause. One so distinct from the cheers of the bloodthirsty crowd that it silenced us.
An ancient, foreboding sound. A nightmare and a reckoning.
The cry of a huge dragon. Its wings unfurled over the arena like a dreadful cloud before it dropped faster than I could believe. I barely had the time to take a breath before it landed heavily in the middle of the field.
One great claw speared straight through Sparrospen’s plated back, killing him instantly.
The arena stilled with pure fear, at once suspended forever in the moment and horrified by it.
I stared at the dragon’s mouth as it shrieked, a warning none needed twice. Spit and rage flew from her mouth, her teeth as long as my forearm and wider still as she flexed her ruby wings.
Chaethor. Her eyes were a warm brown, flecked with hazel and green, narrowed now into angry slits.
The colour Langnathin’s must have once been, before their bond.
Now, they sat in the face of this ancient creature.
And he, on her back, staring at the three remaining men with the same expression, was made all the more monstrous by her sanguine eyes.
The first man in the arena to react was Stalligin. He pelted for the exit. Chaethor swept her tail with such speed, the force alone must’ve killed him. His body sailed through the air and collided into a stone wall.
Brascillan and Fordonne. Two Scentlands men, the home favourites, were stuck still with sheer shock and fear as Stalligin’s body slumped bloodily in a heap.
Only he wasn’t dead. I saw him flex a hand and let out a small groan, audible in the unprecedented silence of the arena.
Langnathin wasted no time. He spoke a word, and Chaethor opened her mouth. This time, fire burst from it, and his own countryman was enveloped in flames before he had the chance to open his mouth or remember he was still holding his sword.
She melted the very bones of his body as the arena walls struggled against the heat.
No one could stop them. No one wanted to try.
The dragon turned, her four scaled legs pacing in a circle like a cat before a long slumber. But Chaethor was not sleeping, nor preparing to rest.
The last two men, Fordonne and Brascillan, finally ran for the exit.
“Not what I expected.”
I barely heard the Thread, even though there was little competition for my ears. My eyes were locked on Brascillan’s back as he leapt over Chaethor’s sweeping tail. On her other side, Fordonne rolled under her neck before crawling back up to his feet.
Chaethor retreated two steps, and swivelled.
They were nearly to the exit, but her jaw had already unhinged.
Her fire hit them both. They both wore plate from head to toe, and through the orange curling flames I saw it melt and buckle.
I heard their cries of anguish as they were boiled and melded into those suits, dying to dragon flame.
All of them. Every suitor.
Dead .
Thread Ersimmon pulled my arm as Chaethor closed her mouth, rolling her shoulders as if it was little more than a stretch. “Come, come now,” he said. “We need to leave.”
I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the ruby dragon, and now him. The Dragon Prince, sat with his back to me, stood up on Chaethor’s saddle and dismounted with an easy jump down into the mud. “I can’t,” I said, glancing at the Thread in terror as he pulled my arm. “I can’t breathe.”
Ersimmon stood in front of me, breaking my sight of the mangled corpses. For a second, he was all I could see, and it unlocked something. This was real. That had happened. “Hold my arm, let’s go.”
I swallowed and stood, grabbing his arm.