by J. C. Diem
Nodding in acknowledgement of the warning, Dacrith shifted so he could keep his eye on Tartor. His gaze kept wanting to stray to Asha sitting up in the balcony. She was watching the men fight, but it was obvious she wasn’t paying much attention. Apart from when she’d nodded at him, she showed no reaction to the battles.
Hexam was waiting for him in the same spot when he was finally allowed to leave. It had been decided that the winners would face two opponents the next day. There were only a thousand men left now and two fights would be manageable.
Bets were being placed on the possible winner. Tartor was the clear favorite, but others were making a name for themselves already. They were the flashy fighters who did their best to entertain the crowd. Dacrith was being deliberately lowkey so he could remain unnoticed for as long as possible.
It was probably stupid to draw attention to himself with courtly manners. It hadn’t won him any support among the spectators. They didn’t want to see someone who was polite. They wanted to see blood and gore. What they didn’t realize was that he was there to fight for Asha.
None of his opponents had grasped the fact that they should be doing their best to please the dryad. She was different from the women they knew. Not only was she a different species, she’d grown up among humans. Her way of life was vastly different from theirs. Humans actually had the ability to care about others.
Musing about Asha and the best way to win her over, he scooped Hexam into his palm and headed for the inn. So far, the beast hadn’t been discovered. The driving rain and endless storms made visibility low enough that he’d been overlooked so far.
Avoiding the tavern and any questions that might be asked, Dacrith entered the inn through the back entrance. The brownies automatically opened the door for him without needing to be asked. For reasons he couldn’t understand, they’d decided he was their best bet at healing the realm. Considering his competition, it was probably a wise decision. He knew Asha in a way no other fairy did. He’d spent enough time with her to understand how vastly different she was. She required a husband who would treat her with kindness and respect.
No man in this realm qualified in that respect, including him. But he could at least pretend to be what she needed, at least until they were bonded. Then he could give up the pretense that he wasn’t as evil as every other Unseelie fairy. While he had no intention of deliberately harming her, it was doubtful they would have a happy marriage. Happiness wasn’t something he even knew how to feel.
Brooding after he ate his meal, he lay down on his thin mattress, but he had trouble falling asleep. Asha had told him some of what it was like to live on Earth. Her stories about friendship and how normal families interacted had sounded fantastical to him.
His mother had birthed him, then had fobbed him off onto a nanny. He’d been raised by the distant, uncaring nurse just like most of the courtiers’ children. Prince Sindarian had claimed him as his son because their resemblance couldn’t be denied. Only the royals had silver and gold hair and gold in their eyes. His father had been a distant, harsh parent, but Dacrith had expected no less. Seeing life through Asha’s eyes, it shone a light on his world and everything he’d known.
Deep down inside, he longed for more than the constant struggle. He’d been fighting his entire life in one way or another. At first, he’d fought to gain respect from the other soldiers when he became old enough to join the Unseelie army. Then it became a battle to earn the respect of the courtiers once he’d become a highly ranked soldier.
He’d always known he would never gain the respect of the Dark Prince. Maybe that was why he’d decided to overthrow Sindarian. He’d believed that defeating his father would be the only way he could ever receive acknowledgment that he was more than just the offspring of a casual coupling.
Picking up on the prince’s dark mood, Hexam lifted one of his heads and whined. “I’m fine,” Dacrith said to the expressive orange eyes that regarded him over the side of the bed. The Cerberus looked at him dubiously, then heaved a sigh and jumped to the floor. He padded over to the fairy, then lay down beside him. “I said I was fine,” Dacrith said in a cranky tone and received a lick on his cheek in response. “Stupid animal,” he grumbled, but he didn’t push the beast away when one of his heads came to rest on his chest.
It was strangely comforting to have his one and only friend beside him. He scowled at that thought, wondering when he’d become so soft. It had to be due to Asha. The dryad had changed him somehow. She’d wormed her way through his defenses and she was now lodged in his thoughts constantly.
Chapter Thirty-One
TAKING HER SEAT IN the balcony, Asha tried to hide her anticipation at seeing Dalrin again. She had to endure a dozen rounds, including Tartor’s, before it was finally his turn. It wasn’t easy to keep her expression neutral when her rescuer strode out onto the arena. Twenty pairs of fighters emerged from the waiting area, but she only had eyes for the man wearing number one-eleven.
Taller than the others by a couple of inches, Dalrin faced his opponent with calm poise. His face was hidden behind his visor, but he turned his head and she knew he was looking at her. She almost let out a shout of warning when the other fairy didn’t wait to be given the signal to begin. His sword lashed out, but Dalrin blocked it and shook his finger warningly. Laughter rang out, then the signal came and the fighting began.
Keeping her eyes on Dalrin, Asha admired how fluidly he moved. His style was similar to theirs, but it was clear he was far more skilled in combat than they were. She wondered how he’d managed to keep up his sword practice while he’d been exiled for so long.
The pair exchanged rapid blows, metal clanging on metal. Asha’s heart lodged in her throat when Dalrin was cut on the thigh. He limped for a few seconds before his wound and armor healed. His focus became razor sharp and he unleashed a flurry of swings. Too fast for his opponent, he knocked his sword away, then pierced the fairy through the chest. Weapon falling from his hand, his defeated challenger sank to his knees.
Dalrin stepped back, waited for the fallen warrior to be carried away, then bowed to Asha. Biting her bottom lip to control the smile that wanted to break free, she inclined her head in return. A few cheers sounded for the hunter as he made his way to the winner’s area.
When the walls closed around him, cutting off his view of the crowd, Dacrith let out a quiet sigh of relief. He’d become complacent and had been distracted when fighting his latest opponent. While the cut on his thigh had hurt, it had been a reminder that he would now be battling more experienced men. Men who were determined to win so they could bond themselves to his future queen.
Tartor had won his first round easily. He glowered at Dacrith from the far end of the room. The winners were clustered together, murmuring about the current batch of fighters who were doing battle. They all knew they would have to face each other at some point as their numbers were whittled down.
After lunch, it was time for their second round of fighting. Dacrith watched Tartor easily defeat his foe again. He was fast, vicious and ruthless. The crowd roared and he once again took his helmet off and held it up in victory as he turned in a slow circle. When he was facing Asha, he saluted her with his sword mockingly. Her face was stony as she stared down at him without acknowledging him. The warrior turned his back on her insolently and sauntered back to the victors’ area. He shot a triumphant look at Dacrith, who was making his way to the fighters’ waiting area along a curved hallway.
Shaking his head that Tartor was so inept at understanding how women worked, Dacrith stood with the other band of competitors to wait for his turn. Their battles were going to become far more challenging tomorrow. They would be expected to face four enemies in total. Overnight, the storms had become worse and they all sensed their time was running out. A champion had to be decided before the realm fell utterly into chaos.
When it was time for his second round, Dacrith was faced with a fast, wily hunter wearing mismatched armor. His style was different fr
om the warriors, but he was no less skilled. Dacrith adjusted his method to suit his opponent, matching his footwork. He was taller, stronger and had a greater reach. He’d also had far more practice at fighting than anyone else in the arena.
While it wasn’t easy to defeat the hunter, Dacrith finally got the upper hand and speared him through the stomach. It wasn’t an automatically killing blow, but his rival knew he was bested. Their fight had taken longer than the others and again Dacrith was the last man standing. He bowed to Asha and she allowed herself a small smile as she bowed back. Some of the female courtiers giggled inanely. A few tossed flowers down into the arena in tribute to his skill.
The prince walked into the victors’ room wearing a smile behind his visor. He was one step closer to achieving his goal. No one was going to stand in his way of becoming king.
Leaving the arena when the fighting was done, Dacrith heard footsteps approaching from behind. He drew his sword and spun around to find himself surrounded by five black clad warriors with Tartor leading them. The blue-haired warrior pushed his visor up and sneered at him. “We’re all curious, one-eleven,” he said as two of his cohorts circled around behind his rival. “We’ve never seen anyone with quite your style before. Where exactly did you train?”
“Here and there,” Dacrith replied vaguely.
“Take your helmet off,” Tartor ordered. “Let’s take a look at the man who thinks he’s going to bed and wed the dryad.” The others snickered, proving they were the warrior’s lackeys.
“I’ve told you you’re not my type,” Dacrith said with exaggerated patience.
“Hold him,” Tartor barked and the two fairies who had sidled around behind Dacrith tried to grab him.
Spinning around, Dacrith lashed out with his left fist and punched the closest warrior in the face hard enough to drop him to his knees. He used the pommel of his sword to knock the other one out, then sidestepped just in time to avoid Tartor’s sword being rammed through his back.
“Cut it out, you lot!” the fairy in charge of the fighters shouted as he came running over. He made a tsking sound as the two men Dacrith had knocked down climbed to their feet. “There’ll be no fighting outside the arena,” he said sternly.
“You have no authority over us,” Tartor said sullenly, but sheathed his sword.
“I can disqualify you from the tournament if you refuse to obey the rules,” the official threatened. Tartor sneered at him, then signaled for his minions to leave. He went with them, casting dark looks at Dacrith on his way past.
“You’re lucky I decided to follow Tartor, my lord,” the official said in a low voice when they were out of earshot. “I had a feeling he was going to try something like this.”
“I am not a lord,” Dacrith replied.
“I know who you are, ‘death’,” the other man said dryly. “I might not be able to see your face behind that helmet, but I’ve watched you fight often enough to recognize the way you hold your sword.”
Sucking in a breath, Dacrith’s hand tightened on his weapon. “How many people know who I am?” he asked.
“Just me, so far,” the official replied. “Don’t fear, I won’t divulge your identity to anyone.”
“Why not?” It was hard to trust a man he didn’t even know.
“It’s obvious the tournament is going to come down to you and the blue-haired wonder boy. Tartor would be a horrible King, even if he is being guided by the advisors.”
“And you believe I would make a better King?” Dacrith asked.
“I hope so, or all will be lost.” With a pointed look up at the roiling storm clouds, the official turned around and hurried back towards the arena.
Bemused by their exchange, Dacrith continued on towards the inn, stopping long enough to pick up Hexam on the way.
Chapter Thirty-Two
PACING UP AND DOWN in her suite three days later, Asha felt sick with nerves. The storms had grown increasingly worse, forcing the combatants in the tournament to fight far more often. Their numbers had been reduced to a bare sixty now. Today would decide who the champion would be and which man would win her hand in marriage.
Several favorites had been chosen by the spectators. Tartor held the most votes, but Dalrin, or number one-eleven as everyone else knew him, was gaining favor. He was a mystery and no one knew anything about him. The advisors were nervous that an unknown man was carving his way through the ranks, but they were confident Tartor would win. They’d ignored her warning that she would reject the blue-haired warrior if he won. They thought they knew what was best, once again forgetting that fate couldn’t be controlled.
“You’ll need to look especially beautiful today, your majesty,” Olsa decided as she and her husband tried to decide what their mistress should wear.
“I think she should wear that one,” Unwin said, pointing at one of the gowns that hung in her extensive closet.
“Aye, it’s appropriate,” Olsa agreed.
Using their innate magic, they changed her outfit as she paced. Asha moved to stand in front of the mirror to examine herself. They’d chosen an amber gown with a myriad of gems on the bodice. It was sleeveless and fitted her more tightly than the other dresses she’d worn. The neckline was still modest and didn’t show off her cleavage like all the other female fairies tended to do. “It’s stunning,” she said, running a hand down the silky fabric of her skirt.
“A dress fit for a Queen,” Unwin agreed, smiling proudly at their work.
Bindel appeared on the table beside them, holding a silver tiara that was encrusted with gems. “Would you wear this today, your highness?” she asked shyly.
Asha strode over and took the tiara from her. “Of course,” she said. “It’s beautiful,” she added, studying it. Like her bodice, it had amber, green and brown gemstones. With the silver band, it was a nod to both sides of her heritage.
“Allow me, your highness,” Bindel said. She used a levitation spell to place the tiara on the dryad’s head. It settled into place and the trio sighed in satisfaction.
“You haven’t eaten your breakfast,” Olsa said, pointing at the plate of fruit that was untouched.
“I’m too nervous to eat,” Asha confessed. “If Dalrin loses the tournament and someone else wins, we’ll all be doomed.” Her heart had decided to choose the hunter and she instinctively knew no other man would suffice. The rain stopping and the clouds parting when he’d arrived at the palace had been a portent. Somehow, they would restore the balance together.
“He’ll win,” Bindel said confidently. “He’s the fiercest warrior this realm has ever seen, after all.”
Olsa and Unwin shot her warning looks as Asha frowned. “What do you mean?” she asked in confusion.
“Nothing,” the head brownie said, eyes shifting nervously. “I’d best be seeing to the others,” she added, then vanished.
“What shoes are we going to pair that dress with?” Unwin asked brightly. Asha was distracted by their chatter as they decided on the final piece of her outfit.
She was ready when Kurtus knocked on her door a few minutes later to escort her to the tournament. He gave her a sardonic look when she couldn’t hide her excitement. “Today is the day, my lady,” he said. “Your King will be decided and our realm will be saved.”
A rumble of thunder drowned out her words when she tried to respond. The ground shook so hard that she had to clutch his arm for balance. “I hope so,” she said when it died down. “We need to act fast to try to stop the chaos from spreading.”
Flooding had been reported all over the realm. Towns were inundated and travelers were holed up at the inns, unable to go any further. Entire communities were cut off from each other. There had even been word of landslides and small earthquakes that had caused fissures to open up.
The advisors were already seated in the balcony when Asha made her way to her seat. Hushed and subdued, the spectators huddled together as wind buffeted the arena. The rain was so loud that it was difficult to hear the announc
er when he called the first batch of fighters.
Tartor sarcastically saluted Asha with his sword, then closed his visor and turned to face his opponent. Five more pairs of combatants faced each other as well. All had proven to be worthy opponents, but there could be only one overall winner.
Asha watched Tartor decimate his latest challenger, using unnecessary flashy moves and grandstanding as always. He was arrogant and overconfident, but he handily bested his first foe by chopping into his neck. Saluting her with his dripping sword again, he swaggered off the field even before the medics rushed in. Instead of cheering for him, the crowd exchanged disturbed murmurs. The wound had been grievous and the fairy could very well die. If he did, it would upset the balance even more.
“You want that reckless, vain fairy to be King?” Asha said quietly to the advisors. “He doesn’t even care if the realm implodes. All he cares about is his image.”
Lord Nicolaia heaved a sigh, but he didn’t contradict her. “We believed Tartor had the best chance of winning, my lady,” he said in a grave tone. “Perhaps fate has chosen another man to sit at your side.”
“Would you accept it if another warrior wins?” she asked.
They exchanged looks, then nodded reluctantly. “We are prepared to accept whomever prevails, my lady,” Lord Vanse said smoothly while eying her gem encrusted bodice with a leer he probably wasn’t even aware of.
“It will be for the good of our realm,” Lady Mildra added and received murmurs of agreement from the others.
“Good,” Asha said in satisfaction, then allowed herself to smile when Dalrin strode out onto the arena with the next batch of fighters. “Because number one-eleven is going to win,” she told them.
“How can you be so sure, daughter?” King Lod asked sourly. “Is it because he bows to you like a dandy whenever he wins?”