Dedreugh’s bluster didn’t seem unusual. For reasons defying Brother Qown’s understanding, every knight at the tournament indulged in this cock’s parade of insults. Maybe they did it to intimidate their opponents, give the crowds a chance to place their bets, or impress their loyal fans. Some traditions start without anyone knowing why.
The Black Knight waited in the ring. She didn’t make a sound.
When the time came to ride to the contest table, Arasgon strolled over with head and tail held high.
Neither side moved to pick a statue.
Of course. The one with the least idorrá picked first in these contests, and neither side would make that admission.
“It’s my lord’s banner,” Dedreugh growled. “You pick first.”
Janel didn’t respond at first. Then she tilted her head—as close as she could come to a nod wearing that helmet—and reached out a black-gauntleted hand. She swept up a statue of an upright man with an eagle’s head and wings: Khored the Destroyer. Brother Qown wasn’t sure what the contest indicated, but given the god chosen, it seemed safe to assume it would be violent.
The count held the statue over her head for the crowd to see. Everyone roared their approval.
Instead of picking a variation, Dedreugh immediately attacked.3
Dedreugh launched himself from his horse and tackled Count Janel, which Brother Qown wouldn’t have thought possible had he not seen it. Dedreugh moved so quickly even Arasgon must have been taken by surprise; before the fireblood could take action, Count Janel hit the ground with a thud.
The crowds pressed behind Mare Dorna and Brother Qown until the priest found himself wedged against the fence. The audience seemed aware they were witnessing a singular moment, something they might never see again. The Black Knight existed as a faux knight, a paper knight: at best a symbol, and at worst a crass lampoon. The Black Knight didn’t behave this way.
Then again, if the Black Knight embodied divine mystery, perhaps this change fitted the role.
Baron Tamin stood still against the edge of his box. The warden’s white nurse had also come forward, leaning her hands against the wooden railing while she watched the match. Neither seemed happy.
The two knights rolled around in the dirt. Both stood as quickly. If their plate armor was supposed to make their movements clumsy or hampered, no one had bothered to tell them. They both shared an animal grace.
Dorna reached over and grabbed Brother Qown’s agolé, twisting the fabric into a ball in her fist. He felt the same nervous dread.
Dedreugh unsheathed his sword, while Arasgon rode up to Janel so she might draw the blade still attached to his saddle. She barely had time to pull the weapon in line before Dedreugh rained down blows. She stepped backward, even at risk of pinning herself against the stands.
Dedreugh swung at her; Janel ducked under the blow. As she did, Dedreugh swung his sword so hard he embedded it in the wooden fencing. He covered his arm with his shield to buy himself the seconds he needed to extricate his weapon. Janel used the opportunity to pierce the weaker mail at his hip, drawing blood.
Brother Qown had told himself this fight didn’t need to be to the death. She only needed to embarrass Dedreugh after all, force him to acknowledge her as superior, bow to her idorrá.
As Dedreugh roared with fury, Brother Qown realized he’d been naïve. Dedreugh tore his sword free and swung back again at his enemy. Janel blocked the attack with her own shield, darting in with her blade to take advantage of the opening.
Brother Qown thought Janel took quicker advantage of opportunities, not to mention moving faster on her feet. Dedreugh proved to be a hulking brute on the battlefield, all fury and no strategy. Against an enemy who equaled him in strength, it wasn’t enough.
Dedreugh came in with another massive, cleaving blow. Count Janel danced away, slamming up his shield with her own, pulling her sword down hard against his elbow. A strip of his mail came loose, little rings falling on the sand like a rich man emptying his purse into a beggar’s hands.
The Count of Tolamer laughed.
Dedreugh came in again, furious, and Janel danced back. Brother Qown realized with startled shock she was copying Ninavis’s strategy: goading her enemy into attack after attack, exploiting the openings as he weakened. Then she stumbled, and he roared his pleasure.
It was a trap.
Her sword slash found the weak spot again, the same place she’d cut his armor previously. The sword sank deep, shearing steel and leather this time, sending sparks down into the sands and the smell of burning metal into the air. Her blade bit true into skin, muscle, and bone.
Dedreugh’s sword fell to the churned earth, followed a second later by his arm.
The whole crowd erupted in a deafening roar.
Brother Qown felt instinct kick in, beyond his control or desire to rein in. He yanked his agolé from Dorna’s hands as he climbed over the yard’s low wooden railing. If he could reach Dedreugh fast enough, before the blood loss killed him, Brother Qown might be able to save his life.
But the crowd fell silent.
The crowd fell silent, and Dedreugh didn’t fall.
Instead, Dedreugh stood there and gazed fondly at Janel. Dedreugh began to laugh, a sound that made all the skin along Qown’s arms prickle. No human could make such a noise.
The blood dripping from Dedreugh’s severed arm wasn’t red. It was black—the thick black ooze of old clotted blood seeping from a corpse.
An old corpse.
Dedreugh hadn’t fallen because Dedreugh was already dead.
He’d been dead the whole time, animated by the diabolical spirit possessing him. Such a spirit wouldn’t care if it pushed the body it possessed past all normal endurance. Such a spirit wouldn’t care if the body it wore took further injury. Easy to mistake such carelessness for supernatural strength. Easy to mistake it for the same curse that gave the count her infernal strength.
They had made a terrible mistake.
**AH, I KNEW IT WAS TOO GOOD TO LAST.**
No noise issued from Dedreugh’s throat. He hadn’t used anything as prosaic as his voice.
Every single person in the crowd, Brother Qown included, felt the demon scream those words straight into their minds.
“Oh, Selanol,” Brother Qown said, not caring who might hear him. “He’s not Dedreugh. That’s not Dedreugh at all.” Brother Qown reached over the railing and grabbed Dorna by the shoulder. “Dedreugh isn’t tainted by demons. His body is being possessed. Do you hear me? He is a demon.”
Brother Qown didn’t think Dorna could hear him. The old woman shook off his arm and mumbled something under her breath, her attention focused on Janel and the demon.
**I ALMOST FORGOT. WHAT WAS IT YOU SAID YOU’D DO TO ME, LITTLE GIRL?**
Dedreugh grinned. He dropped his shield and put his remaining hand’s gauntleted fingers into his mouth.
He yanked downward. Bone and muscle broke away with a sickening crunch.
Dedreugh ripped his own jaw off.4
People screamed, fainted, fled.
**I WON’T NEED THAT ANYMORE.**
Popping sounds filled the air as the straps holding his armor in place broke under the stress of his expanding form. Thick black blood oozed down the cracks in his flesh. The severed arm began regenerating, tumorous warping flesh flowing from light to dark blue at his fingertips, which ended in wicked black claws.