Unseelie Queen

by J. C. Diem

  “It’s called manners, Lod,” she said archly. “That’s something you’re not acquainted with.”

  Nicolaia leaned forward to address her. “You seem to be taken with the mysterious warrior. Why are you sure he’ll win?”

  “He saved me from being trampled by a gigantic boar when I first arrived here,” she explained. “He escorted me part of the way to the palace before your soldiers kidnapped me.”

  “Number one-eleven is the hunter you were seen with?” he asked in astonishment. The other advisors were just as amazed by that news.

  “I haven’t seen his face, but I know it’s him,” she replied. “Besides, he’s wearing a portent that he’ll win.”

  “What are you talking about?” Lady Mildra asked crankily.

  “His number,” Asha pointed out. “One, one, one. He’s wearing the trinity to match my surname.”

  “Superstitious nonsense,” the Goblin King muttered. “Only a female would believe in that sort of drivel.”

  “You’d better hope I’m right,” Asha told him darkly. “He’s the only warrior who has a chance of winning me.”

  “What are you saying?” Lord Vanse demanded.

  “I’m saying I won’t marry anyone except Dalrin,” she declared, then smiled down at her rescuer as he turned to face her. Then the signal was given and the battle commenced.

  Asha was too far away for Dacrith to hear what she was saying, but her beauty almost took his breath away when she smiled at him. Then a sword was whooshing towards his face and he had to focus. Still copying the styles of his opponents, he’d avoided the other contestants after each grueling day was over. Tartor had lain in wait with his cronies again, determined to unearth his true identity. Dacrith was just as determined to remain anonymous and deftly avoided their ambush.

  His rival this time was highly skilled. They exchanged blows, searching for an opening for over half an hour. Human men would have been exhausted long before now, but their strength and stamina were excellent. Still, sweat dripped down their faces beneath their helmets and slid down their spines.

  Dacrith’s opponent feigned tripping over a clump of dirt, but he didn’t fall for the tactic. He was ready for it when the fairy’s sword swung up, aiming for his chest. Knocking the weapon away, he plunged his own blade into the man’s side. They’d all been warned to avoid excessively wounding their foes. He pulled the sword free, then received an acknowledgment of defeat from his opponent.

  Turning to the balcony among a shower of flowers from the spectators, Dacrith bowed to Asha. She beamed back at him and clapped in approval. Feeling as if he was levitating rather than walking, he entered the victors’ area. It had once been packed with men, but now seemed almost empty. Tartor sneered at him, then returned to cleaning and sharpening his sword. They all had to tend to their own gear now that the brownies were losing their magic.

  Dacrith turned his attention back to the arena, but he kept one eye on his number one enemy. Soon, the pair would face each other in battle. He knew it as if it had been carved into his soul. Once he defeated Tartor, his dreams would be within his reach.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  WITH SO FEW COMBATANTS left, the warriors whittled their numbers down to fifteen after the next round. They’d taken a short break for lunch, but the next group were about to face each other. One man had to be chosen to sit this round out since there were uneven numbers. The fairies in charge moved into a huddle and decided to pick Tartor. He sulked at missing out on maiming another opponent and the crowd booed in disappointment. They’d decided he was too risky to send out unless they absolutely had to allow him to fight.

  From the increasingly deafening volume of rain, they had no time left to waste. Instead of having individual fights as they’d planned, all fourteen warriors were sent out into the arena. They stood in their chosen pairs, ignoring the rolling thunder and flashes of lightning that flared brightly through the windows that sat above the spectators.

  Dacrith’s opponent turned out to be as skilled as he’d expected from the few warriors who were left. He managed to defeat the fairy without either of them receiving any dangerous wounds. When the round was over, there were just eight challengers in total, including Tartor.

  They were given a short break before being paired up again. When that round was over, there were just Dacrith, Tartor and two others left. Dacrith knew his final fight would be with the blue-haired grandstander, but after another rest, he focused on his second last foe. They’d trained together long ago, not that the fairy knew it. Dacrith recognized his eyes before he closed his visor. He’d left his own visor down as usual.

  “When you defeat me, make sure you don’t lose to Tartor,” the warrior said so softly that Dacrith had to strain to hear him. “You belong on the throne, my Prince,” he added.

  Shocked that another person had recognized him, Dacrith didn’t allow himself to become distracted. Although he knew he was going to lose, his rival didn’t make it easy for him. Their swords clashed and they became locked in an intense battle that made everyone and everything else fade into the background.

  It was almost a pleasure to fight men who had the same training as him rather than the monstrous beasts he’d encountered in the labyrinth. Dacrith was distantly aware when the other combatants defeated their foes, clearing the arena for the final two fighters. Shaking his head to avoid sweat running into his eyes and ruining his vision, he sensed his opponent lunging at him. He spun away from the blow that would have ended their fight. Behind the warrior now, he kicked his legs out from beneath him, tumbling the fairy to the ground.

  Rolling over onto his back, the warrior held his hands up in defeat when he found Dacrith’s sword aimed at his face. “I yield,” he said loudly and the crowd cheered in response. Holding his spare hand out, Dacrith helped the warrior to his feet. “It was a pleasure, my Prince,” his challenger murmured before picking up his sword and leaving the field.

  Dacrith turned to see Asha was on her feet, clapping in excitement. He bowed deeply and a shower of flowers landed on the ground from the female spectators. He turned to see Tartor glowering at him from the victors’ room. Clearly, he wasn’t happy that the mysterious number one-eleven was going to be his final opponent. Dacrith, on the other hand, couldn’t have been happier. He’d known all along it would come down to the two of them. Tartor was the most vaunted fighter in the Unseelie realm, but not even he could defeat death.

  The head organizer strode out when Dacrith left the field. He had to wait for a break in the thunder to speak. “There you have it,” he shouted, straining to be heard by all. “We have our two remaining warriors. After a rest to allow number one-eleven and Tartor to recuperate, we will have the final battle that will decide who will be our King!”

  Roaring and stamping their feet in approval, half of the spectators called out Tartor’s name and the rest chanted Dacrith’s number. The pair stood at opposite ends of the room with several officials between them. It was no secret that the fighters shared a mutual animosity. It was their job to make sure no blood was shed before the final bout.

  Taking her seat again, Asha felt almost giddy with excitement. Dalrin had shown how superior he was to the other fairies when he’d spared his opponent a grievous wound. He’d gallantly helped the defeated man to his feet and had allowed him to walk away with his dignity intact. Maybe being exiled from the Unseelie Court had been the best thing that could have happened to him. He’d been away from their evil influence and had been given a chance to become his own man. One thing was clear, he was different from the others and now everyone knew it.

  “So, daughter,” King Lod said as snacks and beverages appeared, courtesy of the hardworking brownies. “You must be pleased that your beloved number one-eleven has made it to the final round.”

  “I never had a doubt that he would,” she replied. “Dalrin will defeat Tartor. You’ll see.”

  “We’ll all see soon enough,” Lady Mildra muttered dourly. A rumble of th
under sounded, making the stands shake alarmingly. “That’s if the storm doesn’t drown us all,” she added.

  The two remaining contestants were given an hour to rest. During that time, the rain, thunder and lightning increased. It was as if the very realm itself was reacting to the tournament. It was gaining intensity in sync with the tension that was growing among the spectators.

  When it was finally time for him to return to the arena, Dacrith took a deep breath, then sauntered out onto the field as if he didn’t have a care in the world. In truth, his gut was churning and sweat was already dripping down his spine. After untold eons of punishment for his ambition to rule, he’d finally gained his freedom. The last time he’d attempted to take the throne, he’d been exiled. If he failed this time, it wouldn’t be just him who would be punished. The entire fae world would pay the price.

  “No pressure,” he murmured as he took up his position opposite Tartor. Arrogance emanated from his opponent. Dacrith possessed something his foe would never have; desperation to succeed. Winning wouldn’t just mean being bonded to Asha and becoming king. It would be his redemption from being banished and subjected to the indignity of fighting for the pleasure of the Court.

  The official strode out onto the field and turned to address the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he shouted over the thunder. “It is time for the final round. I give you Tartor and the mysterious warrior known only as number one-eleven!” Apparently, the fairy who had given him his number had scribbled his name down so badly that it was illegible.

  Cheers rang out, momentarily drowning out the noise of the storm. Tartor wore his customary sneer as he came face to visor with his opponent. “Are you ready, mystery man?” he asked.

  “Are you?” Dacrith shot back.

  “I’m ready to win, peasant. Be ready to lose and to return to the obscurity you crawled out from.”

  Smirking at Tartor’s pitiful attempt to intimidate him, Dacrith paused to bow to Asha as his opponent saluted her with his sword. Asha only had eyes for her rescuer. She blew him a kiss and his heart swelled. He was smiling as he turned back to the final man who stood in his way of victory. Their battle wouldn’t be easy, but losing wasn’t an option.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  TARTOR WAS USED TO defeating his enemies quickly and easily. The tournament had given him more of a challenge than he’d had in centuries, but he’d still prevailed without much effort. His current rival was on a different scale to any other fighter he’d ever faced before. Watching number one-eleven in battle had proven that he was wily, he could think on his feet and he was highly skilled. In short, he shouldn’t be underestimated.

  Dacrith had watched Tartor closely during his skirmishes and had worked out his style. He’d had the same trainers as the rest of the warriors, so he didn’t stand out for his technique. He was far more brutal than the others, though. He was used to being taller than his rivals, but they were matched in height. It wouldn’t surprise Dacrith if he resorted to using dirty tactics.

  His hunch came true when they were only seconds into their bout. Tartor spat directly into Dacrith’s visor when they momentarily came close. Flinching automatically, he barely avoided a sword through his heart. He managed to twist aside, receiving a long scratch on his armor.

  That was the first of many cheating attempts the blue-haired wonder used. Dacrith refused to lower himself to the same level. Even the crowd began to notice what Tartor was doing after he was knocked to the ground. When he stood, he threw a handful of dirt at his opponent’s face. Ready for it, Dacrith was already on the move before he could become blinded. He dodged the spray of dirt, then landed a flurry of strikes on his foe.

  Staggering back, Tartor had to utilize every skill he possessed to keep himself from being stabbed through the chest. That was all it would take to decide the winner and he was too proud to allow himself to be defeated so easily.

  Their fight dragged on for over an hour and both men were beginning to tire. At a particularly loud crack of thunder, Dacrith glanced towards the windows just as fresh lightning flared. Momentarily blinded, he sensed his opponent coming for him, and sidestepped just in the nick of time. He thrust his sword out and it slid through Tartor’s armor and into his chest.

  “No,” the warrior breathed in disbelief as he was skewered.

  “Yes,” Dacrith taunted and yanked his blade free. “You lose, Tartor.” He turned as the crowd went berserk at his victory. Even the fairies who had bet against him were chanting his name now.

  Asha stood to cheer for him as well, but her expression changed to horror. Feeling a sense of doom swell, Dacrith’s innate magic bloomed from deep within. His wings burst from his back, carrying him into the air just in time to avoid being beheaded by a mighty swing from Tartor. Silence fell as the spectators took in the six inch black border around his iridescent wings.

  Landing lightly on the ground behind his bewildered opponent, Dacrith shook his finger warningly. “That wasn’t very sporting,” he chided.

  Turning to face his rival, Tartor went pale when he saw number one-eleven’s wings had manifested. His own wings only had three inches of black, which meant he was badly outranked. Only two people in this entire realm had ever possessed six inches of darkness and one of them was dead. “You can’t be,” he breathed in dismay as he realized who he was facing.

  “But I am,” Dacrith confirmed, then unleashed his fury on the cowardly fairy who had tried to behead him after he’d already been defeated.

  Embracing his Unseelie rage, he delivered a lightning fast series of attacks that Tartor never had a chance of blocking. Pierced in multiple places, none of which were deadly, he finally fell to his knees. “I yield, my Prince,” he said, holding his hands up in defeat.

  Kicking Tartor’s sword away, this time when Dacrith turned to face the crowd, they were deadly silent.

  Up in the balcony, Asha was still on her feet. “What’s happening?” she asked, bewildered by the silence.

  “It would appear that death has just won the tournament, daughter,” King Lod informed her in a tone that spoke of dread.

  “Did you know about this?” Lord Vanse demanded, addressing the question to Lord Nicolaia.

  “How could I?” Nicolaia said in self-defense. “He was wearing a helmet the entire time.”

  “Shouldn’t you have recognized him by the way he fought?” Lady Mildra asked shakily.

  “He kept changing his style.” Lord Nicolaia was just as shaken as the others, but he was the quickest to recover. “It seems you have your wish, my lady,” he said to Asha and gestured at the lone champion. She glanced into the arena to see Tartor being carried away by the medics. “Your rescuer has prevailed,” he continued. “But I fear your choice of husbands has been a poor one.”

  “Why?” she asked with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. A bell had rung deep inside her head when the goblin had called Dalrin ‘death’, but she didn’t want to acknowledge it.

  “Come, let’s greet the champion,” Nicolaia said instead of replying.

  Leaving the balcony, they descended a set of stairs that took them out onto the arena.

  Dacrith waited for the advisors and Asha to come to him. He stood with his sword point resting on the ground and his hands on the pommel. Asha looked nervous and unsure of herself. He realized she still didn’t know who he truly was yet. Everyone else had already figured it out. The timely arrival of his wings had put the mystery of his identity to rest. Jake Everett was her friend and he must have told her about him, but she’d never guessed he was the warrior who had stood at Jake’s side as he’d battled the denizens of the goblin dungeon.

  Lord Nicolaia strode forward and bowed. “Your highness,” he said in a neutral tone. “It was clever of you to hide your identity from us. None of us realized who you truly were until you bested Tartor.”

  “Lord Nicolaia,” Dacrith replied, voice sounding hollow behind his visor. “Will you and your colleagues contest my right to bond with
Asha and take the throne?”

  They shared uneasy looks, then shook their heads. “A champion has been decided,” King Lod said in a dour tone. “Congratulations, Dacrith. You’ve managed to not just escape from my prison, but you’ll now become the Unseelie King just as you plotted so many eons ago.”

  The blood rushed through Asha’s ears, dulling their voices as the man she’d known as Dalrin took his helmet off and turned to face her. A sigh went through the spectators when they saw his unmistakable silver hair with gold tips. Jake had told her about the warrior he’d befriended in Lod’s dungeon. She just wished he’d described him in detail. “It was all a lie,” she whispered as he opened his mouth to speak.

  “Pardon?” he asked instead of whatever he’d been about to say.

  “You only pretended to be good because I told you I was going to become the Unseelie Queen,” she said, feeling numb from grief.

  “That isn’t true,” he said and took a step towards her.

  Holding up her hands to stop him, she saw her skin beginning to turn gray. Everyone else saw it, too and disturbed murmurs spread through the crowd. “Don’t touch me!” she said and began to back away.

  “I won the tournament,” he reminded her, staring at her intently through gray eyes that were flecked with gold from the royal bloodline. “I will bond with you and I will be the Unseelie King.”

  Devastated that all he cared about was wearing the crown, she turned away and fled towards the closest wall.

  “Where are you going?” Lord Vanse called after her with a hint of amusement. “Do you think you can travel through walls?” The spectators tittered, but their hilarity died when she embraced her goblin half.

  Dacrith watched in a mixture of fascination and dread when long gray vines burst from Asha’s body. She reached the wall, placed her leafy palms on it and the logs opened outwards, forming a door just large enough for her to fit through.