“Who is it?” Griffin called to Bradyn, who was sidestepping through the actors to get to him.
Bradyn shook his head. “If you’re asking if it was me, it wasn’t, my lord. Got walloped by Wallison in the first square, the lard ass. He took the prize. How unlucky is that? I mean, who puts me against that man-child first off?”
Wallison, the beastly son of Sir Wallis of the Top, lumbered into the tunnel, his sword resting on his shoulder as if he were going to keep it as a souvenir. At fourteen he was nearly as tall as Griffin. He raised his sword over his head in triumph, looking for a reaction from Griffin.
Griffin aimed a finger at him. “Well done, Wallison.”
Bradyn hit Griffin on the arm. “He finished off Zac by farting on his head so loud His Majesty heard it on the balcony. Laughed at him heartily. Zac will never live it down.”
Griffin laughed. “Serves Zac right for ending up under Wallison’s arse.”
“Oof!” A wooden sword swung playfully in Griffin’s direction, wielded by young Master Zac himself. “One day you’ll pay for that, Sir Griffin,” Zac laughed, tossing his wooden sword at him. Griffin ducked, letting it hit the wall. The boys surrounded Griffin and began cheering his name. The actors joined in.
“The king’s champion will triumph again!” Wallison called. “Grif-fin! Grif-fin! Grif-fin!”
Griffin’s chest swelled with pride while his cheeks burned with embarrassment. He couldn’t imagine anyone cheering his name when he’d first arrived in the Bottom. Kicked by soldiers more times than he could count, disrespected by every noble family. Now surrounded by admiration from the very sons of those who looked down on him.
“Foundling Son of the Bottom!” Thoma bellowed at him.
Dres trailed after him. The two gaped at Griffin as if they were meeting a celebrity-stranger and not someone they’d known since he was eight. Both shorter by a head than Griffin, Thoma was fair, with a dimple in his chin and an always-warm smile, while Dres was dark haired with caterpillars for eyebrows, and a permanent furrowed brow that made him look perpetually angry.
“You look like a gladiator,” Thoma teased, shoving his shoulder.
“He looks like a Topper. Fighting with all that on,” Dres chortled. “You should go out naked, like our ancestors.”
Thoma slugged Dres on the back. “Have you seen the northern girls on the balcony? I’ve seen him naked. He’d never have a chance with them if he did.”
Griffin grimaced, mortified. This was the last thing he needed right now. The guards by the door to the king’s balcony glared at them. They weren’t supposed to be in here. They weren’t supposed to sit in the Top sections at all, but there was no way they would make it to the Middle, let alone the Bottom before the match began. Griffin didn’t need to ask their intentions to know they planned to do something they shouldn’t.
“Get out!” Hugo yelled at them. “Griffin doesn’t need you blathering fools wasting his time. He has a match!”
“Ah! Finally, the most important man in the Walled City!” Griffin’s heart filled at the sight of his former employer.
“We’ll find you after!” Thoma said.
“Not if he’s dead, we won’t.” Dres laughed again.
Hugo hustled toward him, carting a new axe, bumping a few boys who refused to get out of his way. The blacksmith was the closest thing Griffin had to family—a hulking human, with little hair on face or head, and hands forever caked in soot. Terrifying at first, Griffin had realized the truth of him quickly. He was as bighearted as they come.
“Here you go, lad!” He handed over the axe. “Double-edged like you asked. Hickory handle. Strongest there is.”
Griffin examined the edges. No one sharpened a blade as finely as Hugo. Griffin rotated the handle through his warm-up moves so as not to kill his cheering friends, finding it perfectly balanced. “Thank you. Truly. It’s perfect.”
“Do us proud,” the smith called, leaving as the play began.
Griffin had seen it more times than was necessary, but after the melee brigade left the tunnel to find seats, he grew restless and ambled over to watch the folly. Grim-faced actors marched side by side around the arena. They played the part of a fictitious army heading into a grand reenactment. A bard told the legend of how King Umbert gained his throne and the players moved around the field in their predictable patterns. Only after the final moments of King Umbert’s victory were cheered would Griffin finally find out who this year’s competition would be.
Five pillaging draignochs were played by counts of six. Three were stacked on shoulders to reach the height of the head. The others were in a line filling out the body and tail. Fabric and wooden posts finished the costume. There was “the king” without his crown, “Egrid” before his legs were broken, and fifty more to represent the noble houses and their armies, who traveled with them.
Wooden spears sailed, hitting the puppet draignochs—and the beasts fell, wriggling for attention, then stilled. The throngs’ cheers held until the actor-king was crowned and he had taken his oath of loyalty and protection to his people and his lands. This was the reason the people loved King Umbert, and always would. He had truly saved everyone, both in the Walled City and the Hinterlands, from the beasts that plagued the land.
“Some show,” Cornwall chuckled, sounding unimpressed.
Griffin was surprised to find Lady Esmera’s youngest brother in the tunnel. “Why didn’t you join the melee with the other boys?”
“Because I have been chosen.” Cornwall set a hand on the pommel of his sword, his grin stretching from ear to ear.
“Chosen for what?” Griffin asked.
“I wasn’t finished!” Malcolm stormed into the tunnel and pushed his young brother up against the stone wall, holding him there. “You’re going to refuse. You’re not ready.”
Griffin’s jaw dropped. “Malcolm, you’re not saying—”
“My name is on the list. That’s right, Sir Griffin.” Cornwall shoved Malcolm off him. “And I am ready, brother. I’ve heard all the reasons you can come up with. My age. My size—”
“None of that matters,” Griffin said, because it was the truth.
“Out of the mouth of a champion.” Cornwall nodded in appreciation to Griffin, then walked to the arena’s entrance, turning his back on his brother. “You’re afraid I’ll overshadow you, Malcolm.”
Malcolm’s glare aimed at Griffin was filled with bitter disappointment.
“What do you want me to say?” Griffin asked Malcolm.
“That he is not battle-proven. That he is unready!” Malcolm growled.
Griffin shrugged. “That wouldn’t have helped. Your brother is impulsive and stupid.”
“Hey!” Cornwall’s retort died there because he could think of nothing more to say.
Griffin nailed him with a stern glare, then looked back at his looming brother. “Would you drop out, once chosen? I know I wouldn’t.”
“No,” Malcolm confessed.
The lift returned full of actors, ending the conversation.
Two more joined them as the actors rushed out. Silas and Oak. Somewhere in his twenties, Silas was a member of the elite guard who secured the castle. Silas, with sun-bleached hair and weathered skin from hours on the practice field, nodded in greeting to Griffin. His family was one of the most highly regarded in the Top. His father was Ragnas, the chieftain of the East before the realms folded under King Umbert. It took a title last year to earn that nod. Griffin graciously returned it.