Griffin chortled. “Zac did all right, then, Silas. Made it to the final match.”
“My brother will never live that down.” Silas wickedly laughed.
Griffin wasn’t surprised that King Umbert had chosen him. Besides Malcolm, Silas was the only other who posed a risk to Griffin’s title.
Oak, on the other hand, would die in his first draignoch match. Closer to Griffin’s age, Oak was too fat to get out of his own way. He too was of a noble family, from the West, which was the only reason Griffin could think the king would’ve chosen him. Griffin thought of warning him off, telling him to wait another year, or ten, but like Cornwall, he would never heed his advice. Griffin was the enemy.
All of them wore rich linens and fur-lined tunics. Only Griffin was in armor. He would have to truly fight today.
The king must have raised his arms, for the crowd silenced. “People of the Walled City, Sir Griffin, our champion, will have four seeking to unseat him. Brave knights who will face the vicious draignochs, trying to best his performances against the beasts. And let us not forget the skills matches, favor added for each spear thrown farther than Sir Griffin’s, each arrow flying truer in targeted strikes, daggers and axes, and anything else I think to add to the start of the days. Now, stand with me as I call out the chosen’s names.”
The stands shook. The chatter with guesses over who would be coming out of the tunnel escalated. The lift waited to be used as a balcony, holding the chosen high enough for all to see.
King Umbert silenced them again. “It gives me great joy to count both sons of Laird Egrid of the North among the four: Sir Malcolm and Sir Cornwall.”
A blare of trumpets. Cornwall dashed onto the lift, not waiting for Malcolm. Sporadic applause met them. This was all the Walled City was willing to give the brothers from the North today.
Silas followed Malcolm. And finally Oak, who stumbled along the way, earning the first boos of the tournament.
Then it was Griffin’s turn.
“And lastly, your champion, Sir Griffin.”
Unified stamping sounded like thunder. Griffin waited a few long seconds before coming out, earning the loudest of cheers. He gave a gracious bow to the king and waved to the people. He rolled his shoulders in anticipation of his fight. But King Umbert made no move to announce it. He sat, the tankard in his hand being refilled as the throngs continued chanting Griffin’s name.
King Umbert waited patiently, letting the crowd determine the pace. If they wanted to raise their champion’s name to whatever gods roamed above, then His Majesty was pleased to let them.
On the dais, beside his father, Prince Jori raised a fist in his direction, which Griffin returned. The people saw and whistled their approval at Jori, heralding fists to him as well. This was what the king wanted, for the people to see that Griffin and Jori were a united front. The future of the realm safe with a strong king, a capable prince, and a champion at their side. Déjà vu struck Griffin all at once. This day last year when it was Raleigh standing in the arena, the king’s champion. Since his loss to Griffin, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen his mentor at the king’s table for a meal. And here he was, so overlooked he had yet to return from his journey into the Hinterlands.
The other challengers were escorted back inside the tunnel, leaving Griffin alone with the marshal, Duncan, on the lift as it slowly descended.
Duncan ran the armory, but today, and for the rest of the tournament, he also served as referee. Dressed in a red tunic and a matching leather cap with a long white feather plume, halfway down he lifted his arms, silencing the crowd. “People of the Walled City, your champion is granted the honor of the first match.”
Adrenaline coursed. Griffin stretched his neck, then put his helmet on. When the lift hit the arena’s floor, Griffin pulled his sword. He picked up his axe in his other hand and jogged into the ring until he stood beside the beast’s exit point. There, he dropped his axe and raised his sword, giving the signal to raise the iron door.
Griffin centered his attentions on the beast’s exit point. The throngs’ cries faded to fuzzy and distant hums, drowned out by the steady rhythm of his own heartbeat. His nerves buzzed like a dragonfly he could never kill, so instead he ignored the bastard.
Rusty chains slid against pulley wheels, screeching with each turn, yanking the iron gate upward. The beast roared at the crowd before running into the ring.
“A cowcodile!” one young boy yelled. That was what many called draignochs, and the name was somewhat appropriate. The beast looked like a fatted cow crossed with the giant crocodile, a monster brought back from a distant land that had been stuffed and exhibited in the palace hall.
Almost thirty feet long from the tip of its toothy snout to the top of its heavy tail, this particular draignoch was on the larger side, likely close to two hundred stones in weight. A scaled monster with teeth the length of swords and curved claws that could cut through flesh and bone as easily as a freshly sharpened blade slicing through cake.
The humorous name the children tagged on draignochs didn’t account for a third feature that was neither cow nor crocodile: a small pair of leathery wings. A draignoch was too heavy to fly, of course, but furiously flapping those wings could lift the front half of its torso from the ground. Griffin had seen many knights crushed under the incredible weight.
Griffin summoned his anger. His mother’s last cries echoed in his ears. His father’s final breath, taken in his arms, flashed before his eyes. Vengeance always tasted bitter when Griffin stood against a draignoch in the arena. He spat loudly, catching the draignoch’s attention as he stepped out of the shadows and into the creature’s full view.
The wings went to work immediately, lifting the monster up on its hind legs, raising its head nearly thrice Griffin’s height. The beast opened its jaws wide—displaying a maw that could bite the head off a man with ease. The draignoch landed on all fours beside him. Griffin spun out to the side. Its head craned to strike Griffin but wasn’t fast enough to catch him. He leaped, swiping his blade, cutting deep across the draignoch’s sensitive wing.
The creature’s screeching elicited startled cries from the crowd in response that were quickly drowned by rousing cheers.
“Yes!” King Umbert’s thunderous roar was the loudest of them all.
Griffin raised his sword to deliver a harder blow, but the draignoch struck first, sweeping the injured wing, using its claw like a morning star.
The first hit knocked Griffin’s helmet off. The second sliced his cheek. The opened gash bled, forming rivers in the deep grooves of the U branded on his chest plate. Before Griffin could recover, the draignoch’s spiked arm belted his sword out of his grip, sending the weapon flying into the middle of the ring and driving a spike through his hand. Miraculously missing bone in his palm, it tore the gauntlet right off when the draignoch ripped it out.
The throngs fell silent in shock and horror.
Burning agony spread like wildfire through Griffin’s hand. He shoved it beneath his underarm and bit his lip hard to keep from screaming bloody murder.
He was losing—and losing wasn’t an option. The king and Jori were counting on him. Griffin stumbled backward, leaving a trail of blood from his cheek. The tip of his boot collided with the sharp edge of his sword’s pommel. Griffin touched the grip at the same time the draignoch’s tail struck him across the backs of his knees, knocking him forward, gathering him in close for a killing bite. Then the bastard stepped on the blade before Griffin could pull it from the ground.