“Keep the damn sword.” Griffin rolled toward his axe.
The draignoch chased after him, its mouth inches from the back of Griffin’s head. Two nerve-racking passes, and Griffin’s hand at last found the wooden axe handle. “There you are . . .”
He reversed, half rolling, half scrambling back the other way, beneath the snapping mouth, past the uplifted front legs and through the draignoch’s back legs as the beast flopped down. Before the draignoch could crush him, Griffin snapped off a heavy backhand and felt a satisfying jerk when the blade struck hard bone.
“Lucky swing!” Cornwall called from the dais.
Griffin couldn’t agree more. Taking the axe with him, he rolled out and jumped to his feet.
The draignoch stumbled sideways, leaving a trail of steaming gray blood that mixed with Griffin’s own. He flung the axe end over end at the draignoch to keep it back long enough so that he could retrieve his sword.
The draignoch fell on all fours, turning to snap at the axe. In a single move, Griffin rushed forward, jumping into the air as high as he could while at the same time flipping the sword, blade down. With all the strength he had left, he buried the blade deep into the draignoch’s back.
The beast reared, tossing Griffin. But the deed was done.
It tried to growl, but more groaned. Then, staring hatefully at Griffin the entire way, it fell over on its side.
With the help of his boot, Griffin yanked his sword out and stabbed it in the back again.
The crowd jumped to their feet, chanting his name.
The draignoch’s chest heaved, gasping for breath. Its tongue darted in and out. A slow moan escaped its throat. Death was imminent, but not fast enough for the crowd—or for Griffin.
“Kill it!” a man yelled.
Griffin looked at King Umbert, waiting for a thumbs-up or -down, a tradition left over from the gladiator pits. A thumbs-up, and Griffin could kill the draignoch because his performance was deemed a win by the king. A thumbs-down meant Griffin would have to stop no matter how much he wanted to kill it. It would mean the king thought his performance was lacking, and he should have done better. It would also give the others confidence that he was vulnerable. Griffin had never received a thumbs-down.
And the king . . .
. . . didn’t give him one now.
Griffin drove the blade in the draignoch’s jaw, stabbing his sword so hard the tip of the blade cracked through the skull.
The light went out of its eyes as it expelled its last breath.
“Grif-fin! Grif-fin!” His name echoed through the arena.
Griffin stood taller and turned with his fist raised to all four sides of the field, then he bowed to the king.
The crew hurried into the arena, lugging thick ropes tied to a team of sixteen horses. Griffin retrieved his sword before they dragged it away with the carcass. He rode the lift sitting, his feet dangling off the end, waving to the crowd.
Prince Jori jogged out of the doorway to the balcony, into the tunnel to meet him. He wrinkled his nose at Griffin’s bloody cheek. “It’s a good thing your face is already scarred, otherwise that gash would be noticeable.”
Griffin laughed, then cringed. His face stung.
His hand prickled, painfully regaining feeling, his palm slippery with blood from the spike’s stab. A week was all he had for it to heal, before his next turn in the ring. His stomach tightened with stress, knowing it wouldn’t be enough.
“Quite a performance.” Jori gave him a brotherly pat on the shoulder. “Next time, though, I think you should use my father’s dagger to finish him off. That would be a show.”
Jori worshipped Griffin’s Phantombronze dagger because it was meant for him. King Umbert rewarded Griffin with it when he saved Jori’s life. It was the day everything changed for him.
Hugo had sent him to deliver a new weapon made for the king to the fortress. He passed it off to a servant, and afterward, cut through the Great Hall on his way out because he had never seen it before. Griffin didn’t believe in fate, but he did, fully, in luck. Luck had brought Jori wandering into that same hall at that same time, swinging a hatchet around as if it were a toy, and greater luck still had placed another man in hiding behind a tapestry, armed with a sword.
The assassin jumped Jori, getting his arm over the young prince’s chest and his blade against his neck.
Jori dropped the hatchet and pissed himself.
Griffin used his dagger to pierce the assassin’s kidney before the would-be murderer could slice Jori’s throat.
The king gifted him the Phantombronze dagger as a reward. Jori said he understood, Griffin deserved it for his bravery; nevertheless, he brought it up whenever he had the opportunity, which Griffin found amusing. The prince had everything, and Griffin nothing, except the one object the king had gifted him.
“My dagger, you mean,” Griffin countered. “And I would never taint a thing of such beauty with draignoch blood.”
Dres and Thoma jaunted over the Toppers’ bridge.
“Sir Griffin, the mighty Draignoch Slayer!” Thoma cried.
Dres tried to enter the tunnel, but the guards pushed them back. “Return to your seats . . . in the Bottom.”
“It’s all right. They’re with me,” Griffin called.
“You heard the champion. We’re with him,” Dres said, but the guards continued to shove.
Jori shook his head. “Griffin, we can’t keep affording them special attentions.”
Griffin squinted. “Why not? They were allowed here last year.”
“Things have changed. After what happened recently . . .” Was Jori saying this had to do with the assassination attempt? If so, there was little room to argue.
“Sorry, mates. I’ll see you later, yeah?” Griffin bellowed.
“What? You can’t be serious,” Dres spat.
“It’s fine. Fine! We understand.” Thoma pushed Dres away from the entrance.
“What? Suddenly he’s too good to be seen with the likes of Bottom feeders? He is a bloody Bottom feeder! See that, Thoma, moves in the castle, and now he thinks he’s too good for us!” Dres yelled for Griffin’s benefit.
That was all Griffin heard. The guards pushed them away and would make sure they didn’t return.
“Stop looking so ill. You are too good for them,” Jori added.
“It’s all good. Dres will act like a bitter ass for a while, but a few tankards of ale on me and he’ll change his tune. So, fruitful journey, I hope? After forcing me to eat with your betrothed.” Jori had refused to tell him where he was going or what he was doing.
“Better you than me.” The prince rolled his eyes. “Yes. We returned with two prizes. One we expected and one rather unexpected. The unexpected, you will see tonight.” Jori’s beaming smile was enough to give away what this treasure was.
Griffin groaned. “Have you brought another lousy magician to perform?” Jori smirked in reply. Griffin rolled his eyes this time. “You’re obsessed, man. Magic isn’t real.”
“And I’m telling you, Griff. Xavier is the Ambrosius. This man will change your mind.” Jori threw a heavy arm over Griffin’s sore shoulders. “And he has the most”—the prince paused to choose his words carefully—“intriguing assistant. I don’t know what it is about her, but I am very glad she is soon to be within our walls.”