Malcolm’s jaw worked as he wrestled with Griffin’s words all the way to the tunnel’s entrance. “He won’t live through the match.”
“More likely, he will. And we’ll have to hear about it for years to come.” Griffin smiled, trying to lighten the mood, but Malcolm didn’t rise to the occasion. He nodded as if accepting this was out of his control, because it was, and no amount of conversation with Cornwall would change a thing.
There was no melee today. Zac exited after his brother Silas’s death. Others followed in support of the noble family. Wallison and Bradyn were the only two who showed up this morning. The event was cut altogether. All that was left was the opening dramatics. Dressed in bright colors, acrobats flipped, jumped, and bent, entertaining the restless crowd.
As soon as it was over, Duncan called for the challenge event. In the tunnel and on the lift down into the ring, Griffin examined his staff with great care, as he had every weapon since the accident. The spectators quieted as two rectangles were drawn. The goal was to knock your opponent out of the space, eliminating, until the last man stood in the center.
With three left in the competition, Malcolm and Cornwall fought each other first. The winner moved on to battle Griffin. Being champion had its privileges after all.
The two stepped inside the first rectangle, Malcolm wearing black, and Cornwall in brown, both paying tribute to the North with blue-and-green tartan sashes. That would surely anger the king.
For the first minute Malcolm toyed with Cornwall. Faking jabs, goading his younger brother.
“What’s wrong?” Malcolm taunted. “Afraid of what comes next?”
“Excited.” Cornwall raised his staff above his head and swung down, hitting Malcolm’s hand.
“Ow!” Malcolm backstepped. “Full of surprises, aren’t you?”
“Will you shut up already and hit him! Pathetic! I could do so much better. They should let me in the tournament,” Sybil cried, howling with laughter from the balcony. Three days ago, Griffin had seen Sybil on the practice fields. He was glad she wasn’t a competitor. She was as accomplished as Malcolm—and wilier.
Malcolm rained down heavy strokes, jabbing between, all of which Cornwall blocked. Cornwall knocked Malcolm back with a hard cross-body lunge. Malcolm countered, and the two stood in a grunting stalemate, until Malcolm used his chest, throwing his weight on the staff in a sharp jerk. Cornwall stumbled sideways, cursing, stepping out of bounds.
The crowd gave a round of applause but held back; there was another match before the delivery of the final victor.
Malcolm helped his brother up. “Go get ready for what comes next. I expect to be toasting your victory tonight, little brother.”
Cornwall seemed surprised by Malcolm’s words. He half smiled, slapping Malcolm on the chest, then jogged into the side, slower than he usually moved.
Griffin rubbed dirt on his staff and stepped into the center rectangle. He rolled his neck, cracking it, trying to wake up. He was in Maggie’s room far too late, but it had been worth it.
Malcolm held his staff in both hands, across the length of his body, but his stare was on his brother.
Marshal Duncan walked the perimeter with his hand in the air, and the crowd’s full attention—then dropped it, starting the match.
Malcolm jabbed, a hard cross-body check Griffin blocked, pushing him back and almost out of bounds.
“Stop worrying over your brother and fight me,” Griffin said.
Malcolm swung an overhead drop, nearly banging Griffin’s staff out of his hands. Griffin jabbed, hitting Malcolm in the gut, bending him over, then struck him again on the back.
Malcolm staggered backward, staying inbounds, recovering fast enough to block Griffin’s next jab, then advanced, rowing the staff, thwacking Griffin’s, backing him up until he teetered on his heels on the edge of the line. Griffin landed a sharp uppercut to Malcolm’s jaw. He fell forward—out of bounds.
The crowd cheered. He could hear Jori from the balcony, calling, “Sir Griffin!” Griffin should acknowledge him. Pay homage to his prince, but he couldn’t. Not anymore. Griffin reached a hand down to Malcolm, helping him up.
The people chanted Griffin’s name into a chorus. Griffin took a quick bow, then walked straight to Cornwall, who stood off to the side of the ring, strapping on bulky leg guards. Between his heavy chain mail over the thick leather padding and his metal body armor, Cornwall would move slower than Oak on his fastest day.
Maggie waited on the balcony, and Griffin was in a hurry to see her, but after passing off his staff to an assistant, he walked back. He had to say something to the cocky whelp before his first fight.
“Do you wish to see sixteen, Cornwall?”
“I don’t want to hear from you, Griffin. I know what I’m doing.” Cornwall lowered his helmet’s face mask down.
“You’ll move too slow with all this on. Ask your brother.”
“This is the most advanced defensive equipment the kingdoms have ever seen.” Cornwall checked the sharpening on his sword. “The sun is out. The ground dry. I will move just fine. I don’t need my brother, or you, to tell me anything.”
Griffin threw up his hands in surrender, leaving, but then stopped. “Last piece of advice, and then I’m gone. If you lose your footing or get injured in any way, head for the lift as fast as you can. The draignoch’s chains won’t allow the beast to reach that far.”
Cornwall sheathed his sword. “I’ll be the butt of the king’s jokes.”
“At least you’ll be alive to hear them.” Griffin set a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Don’t you understand? Surviving is the ultimate win.”
Cornwall stared at his feet, nodding, giving Griffin hope that something he said broke through that heavy helmet.
As soon as Griffin came out on the balcony, Jori handed him a chalice. “Well done.” The prince raised his own glass, first to the people, and then to Griffin.
“Thank you.” Griffin searched for Maggie, letting his gaze linger longer than he should when he found her. Stunning in a yellow dress, she was being held hostage by Xavier at the other end of the balcony, beside King Umbert.
An arm fell over his shoulders. “Come,” Jori said, demanding Griffin’s attention. “You won’t want to miss a second of this.” He led Griffin to the other end of the balcony.
Esmera and Sybil got up to give a standing ovation to Cornwall as he exited the tunnel. His sword in one hand and a shield in the other, he dropped to one knee when he reached the center of the ring.
The throngs silenced.
King Umbert stood, leaning on the railing so hard it creaked under Griffin’s hands. “Well, second son, let’s see if you can redeem the brothers from the North.”
Egrid wrestled with his crutch, nearly falling over. Maggie hurried to his side to help.
“Where’s Malcolm?” Esmera asked.
“In the tunnel, I suspect,” Sybil answered.
A bell gonged. The drums began their slow beat, pacing with the rise of the gate. A sharp pounding inside began, quaking the stands. People mumbled with worry.
Maggie closed her eyes briefly. When they opened, she tried to run, likely out the door, but Xavier was holding on to her wrist. He yanked her, holding on to her but not for long. She kicked him and he let go, cursing her. She headed for the door, but the guards prevented her from leaving. She found Griffin. Her mouth parted, her chest rising and falling in fear.