To the Victor

by Samantha M. Derr

  The final event loomed overhead, and Squeak was getting nervous. Sabotage abounded, though no one could be sure if it was done by the competitors or the king's men. Bad food, broken weapons, stolen articles of clothing. Juvenile things, really, but there was a rumor that someone had attacked Wilber the pigboy in his sleep and two minor knights had been disqualified for brawling in the streets after hours.

  By the time the final day arrived, the tension in the air was thick enough to slice with a sword. Squeak began to wonder what Lucy thought of all this. He and Nigel and a few others sat just outside his tent, logs circled around a small fire where they'd made some porridge and sprinkled it with berries. He could watch the towers of the castle as he shoveled food into his mouth, imagining Lucy up there, pacing and wringing her hand, trying to figure out which gown to wear or how to dress up her hair. Did she have her heart set on a certain victor? But he just had to remind himself that if he won, he would give her the opportunity to choose for herself. She could have anyone she wanted. Or maybe she didn't want anyone. She deserved to follow her heart.

  "Do you think you love her?"

  Nigel's voice was soft and—dare he think it?—sad, pulling Squeak away from the castle and back to the porridge. Since he couldn't look at Nigel just then, he stared into his breakfast, giving it a faint smile. "I know I love her," he said, then looked up as meaningfully as he could, "but not in the way you'd think."

  The smile didn't have the effect on Nigel that Squeak had hoped. If anything, Nigel looked irritated, annoyed. "What does that even mean?"

  "I can't really explain it right now," Squeak insisted, wishing he could dispel Nigel's doubt. Why was he asking, anyway? Was he jealous? The prince was clearly upset, but Squeak felt a thrill race through him at the idea. "Everything will make sense afterwards. The princess, she... she is very dear to me, you see, but not like that. I'm doing this more for her than I am for me."

  Nigel was quiet for a long moment; he was the one now staring into his porridge. Squeak wanted to give him space despite aching to know what he was thinking, so he kept quiet, waiting. Finally, with a dramatic timing that set Squeak's heart into a whirlwind, Nigel spoke.

  "Squeak?"

  "Yes?" The response matched his name all too well. He gripped his bowl, hoping it wouldn't get in the way of anything Nigel might say or do. Because, of course, there was something he wanted Nigel to do, but he doubted that would happen. He tried not to get his hopes up for such a wild conclusion to their conversation. Something like that would never happen unless he did it himself, and he didn't dare try.

  Nigel hesitated, a silence that stretched out unbearably long. Should Squeak say something to encourage his friend? What could he say? He could barely breathe as it was, even after Nigel finally set aside his bowl and stood up. He placed a hand on Squeak's shoulder.

  "Good luck, Uther," he said, squeezing slightly. When he lifted his hand and walked away, Squeak was filled with a great absence, as though he had just allowed something precious to escape and he would never get it back again. He watched Nigel disappear into the camp, his chest aching, and he had to force himself to stay seated and not run after him. He had to finish his breakfast. He had to go save his sister. If he was lucky. If he was lucky, maybe he could save his sister and get the prince in the process as well.

  Too bad he had never been very lucky.

  *~*~*

  While the entire festival buzzed about the final event, Squeak felt strangely removed from it all as he waited in the small tent behind the arena, where he prepared and made himself increasingly nervous. He had to remind himself that to make it this far without a jousting score was exceptional; he had done extremely well. He had nothing to fear. But the final battle was a free-for-all, a battle royale against each other, where the victory would be handed to the last person standing. Squeak did well one-on-one, where he could hone in on a specific set of weaknesses to exploit, but he worried about how he'd fare against multiple opponents at once. Perhaps he should save himself the trouble and duck out now.

  On the other hand, at least his fear and nervousness helped him forget about Nigel for a while. Wringing his hands, he paced the small space, thinking of his competitors' weaknesses and strengths, thinking of how they might be used against him, leaving no room for any other thoughts, until Nigel himself entered the tent, allowing a burst of sound through the opening as he stepped in, muted once more once the flaps closed.

  Squeak turned at the sound with dread in his boots, expecting a squire come to fetch him for the battle. With Nigel's fine figure standing there instead, his mind made a sharp lurch that that threw all of his other thoughts out of line, sending them off into confused disorder.

  "N-Nigel," he stammered. "What are you—"

  He didn't get any further. Nigel stepped forward with so much intense purpose that Squeak thought that the prince intended to strike him, but he pulled off Squeak's helm, threw it aside, cradled his head between his hands and kissed him. Squeak was so surprised that it took him a moment to truly appreciate the drive and desire in the gesture, to just relax and enjoy it and respond in kind. Their bodies pressed together, hands awkwardly trying to gain purchase on something that wasn't hard armor. Nigel tasted of smoked meat and sweet ale, and Squeak couldn't get enough.

  They eventually had to breathe, though, and a rustle of the tent admitted a squire who was there to lead Squeak out into the arena. He politely cleared his throat, and Nigel was turning a rather fetching shade of red.

  "Sorry," he said. His tone was sheepish and his shoulders lifted a little to protect himself, but it was clear by his smirk that he regretted nothing. "I just wanted to wish you good luck."

  "No." Breathless, Squeak shook his head. "I'm glad you did. I'm going to need it out there."

  "That's nonsense." Nigel's grin grew, broad and eager. "You're easily the best one out there, Squeak. You've got this whole thing wrapped up tidy with a big bloody bow."

  Squeak laughed, and he might have said more or he might have kissed Nigel again if the squire at the door hadn't politely reminded them both of his presence. "I'm sorry, sir, but you really must get going. They'll only wait so long before they just disqualify you for tardiness."

  "Ah, right, sorry," said Squeak, but he found that he couldn't move. He was grounded to the spot right there in that moment, reluctant to leave. But he had to, so he gave Nigel one last smile before forcing his legs to lift, fetching his helm, and going after the squire. "Come find me afterwards, okay, Nigel?"

  "A million dragons couldn't keep me away!"

  "Yeah," Squeak laughed, "but the guards might."

  Outside the tent, the world became strange and foreign. The tent seemed to contain a soft warm little glow, like a lazy autumn afternoon, but outside, the sun was harsh, the hot air thick with pesky bugs, and the roar from the audience was deafening. It jarred Squeak back into the dire situation he was in, palms sweaty as he thought about confronting the handful of others awaiting him in the arena. Due to the nature of the tournament, the victors so far had yet to face off against each other, and their rigorous battle afforded them no extra time to really see how the others fought. Squeak felt like he'd been blindfolded, but at least he could think back to that kiss, and that made his worries receded back at least a little. No matter what happened, Nigel would be there waiting for him when it was all over.

  They reached the arena, full to bursting with cheering observers. Squeak's eyes first went to the other entrances, where his opponents stood, ready to go. He recognized most of them. Directly across from him was Ashram Wolfslayer, a nearly feral barbarian woman from the cold eternal winter of Glaciaer; even from this distance, a chill danced up Squeak's spine. Something about her always made him think she'd prefer to use her hands to kill you, and that was terrifying. To his left, Prince Wesley of Gynnocota, whom he would probably try to dispose of first on principle alone. Gynnocota had a tendency to think they owned everything, and the thought of them stealing Lucy made his blo
od boil. To his right was another nobody like him, who he knew did very well in the joust and archery, a Mount Freeland lad named Timothy. If he were to have anyone else win but him, it might have been Timothy, but that simply wasn't going to happen. There were a few more, but Squeak felt those three would be his biggest concern.

  And there, in the large box on the other side of the arena, was Lucy, sitting with her father, of course. Her hands moved in her lap; Squeak suspected she had a handkerchief there, balling it up nervously. Would she notice the lingering look of promise on Squeak's face before he fitted on his helm and lowered his visor? It didn't matter. All that mattered now was winning.

  The announcer rode forward on a horse to sit at the center of the arena, but Squeak couldn't hear a word of what he said, buried under the persistent thumping of his own heart. There was a rise in tone, a sharp gesture, and then he rode his horse away like the wind. The battle had begun, and the warriors rushed out into the field.

  Well, some of them. Many of them were eager for blood, charging straight for the middle to clash with whoever they might meet there, while a few of them, Squeak among them, were a little more reserved. They were closing the doors behind them so they couldn’t' escape, and Squeak had to remind himself that this was not a fight to the death, at least, just a fight to disable. He swallowed hard, knowing he didn't have it in him to maim or murder someone, but he could definitely do some damage. He would have to. He had to do it for Lucy.

  Someone charging from the left broke his thoughts and brought him back into the moment. Squeak turned just in time to block an axe with his sword, inspiring a gasp of awe from the stands. A second axe came sweeping in from the side, but Squeak deftly jumped back. He crouched, sword brandished and ready. He studied the fellow. Talin Chirpspring, if he recalled correctly, a hometown fellow from Severille itself. What a story that would make! Growing up some average citizen who beat all odds and married the princess. It was sweet, sure, but not good enough, unless he knew for sure that the princess wanted to marry him, too. He had to go. "Sorry, friend," Squeak said, pulling back his sword.

  "I'm not your friend, pal," Talin retorted, and they charged for each other. Squeak was going in low, sword parallel to the ground, aiming to ding Talin's busted up armor even more. Talin spread both his arms back with the intention of bringing them together with Squeak caught in the middle. But they didn't call him Pipsqueak for nothing. Close to the ground, he was able to duck under the colliding axe blades. His sword wasn't much use down there, but his body was, so he sheathed it quickly and threw himself into Talin's legs, wrapping his arms around him to knock him over to the ground.

  The outburst from the crowd showed that not everyone was too keen on his move, but Squeak didn't care. He was here to win, not curry favor with the populous. Besides, the judge on his speedy horse hovered nearby and didn't call him out, so it was fair game. Nearly everything would be fair game, and, somehow, their savagery was supposed to prove them a good match for a princess. Absurd. Dangerous. Nonsense. It must be ended!

  Squeak rolled away when they hit the ground, pulling out a dagger, just in case Talin was faster than he. Which he was, plus the fact that Talin was persistent and determined. He hopped back to his feet almost immediately, and Squeak quietly regretted his plan. Still, all those dance lessons as a child, the ones he hated but Lucy loved, paid off to make him just as agile. Back on their feet, it would be a lot of swings and blocks, swing and dodge, swing and miss for a while. They were pretty well matched. But Squeak was just buying his time until an opening appeared, and then there it was, as Talin's axe was still low after a particularly powerful swing, leaving his neck and shoulders exposed briefly. Briefly was all he needed to get in there with his knife, stopping the blade just before it did any damage, and the judge waved a red flag between them. Talin was ruled out, as it would have been a crippling blow if it had been real.

  He would have offered condolences to his well-fought foe if a commotion elsewhere in the arena hadn't dragged their attention away. The crowd had fallen into a shocked silence as the judge tried to force the hulking Sir Serandit of Lorcrades off the field. He was laughing, wild and maniacal, slicing at the judges and refusing to submit. A few of the contestants had joined the effort to contain him, and that was when Squeak noticed the two bodies on the ground, the dirt beneath them dark with a growing puddle of blood.

  Squeak felt as though his own blood had drained from his body. "Is that…?" he started but changed his tact. "Did he kill those fighters?"

  The judge behind him sighed. "There's always at least one," he said, then cocked his head to the side. "Go on, then, you, you're out. Kindly exit the arena quietly and don't give us any more trouble than we've already got with that one."

  For a brief moment, Squeak thought Talin might follow in Serandit's murderous footsteps, frozen in place by an air of dejected fury. But he eventually turned skulking off with his head lowered, and Squeak was tempted to follow him. His will to fight had been dampened by the idea that this meant enough to some people to break the rules and kill the others. And for what? The hand of a princess they didn't even know? A stake in some of her father's land? A meager pittance and a comfortable retirement? Serandit was likely to be executed for his breach of chivalry, and there were two others gone for good as well. Was this worth it?

  If it was any other princess, maybe not. But as soon as he thought it, he realized that he would probably want to help anyone subjected to an auction as if they were property. This one being Lucy simply made it personal, and he definitely couldn't turn his back on his sister, leaving her stranded to the will of the fates.

  That alone bolstered Squeak back to the cause. He also couldn't imagine Nigel being attracted to him if he turned out to be a coward. And, on top of all of that, Ashram Wolfslayer was headed full-tilt toward him, her wild smile gleaming in the sun, clearly hoping to capitalize on the distraction to take a few people out. In fact, Squeak realized with a surge of dread and excitement all at once, he and Ashram were the last ones standing.

  And Ashram was on the war path. Squeak barely had time to draw his sword before she reached him, swinging a mighty club. One knock from that club with that force behind it would put Squeak out for at least a week. He blocked it easily enough, though, his blade thunking into the wood and sticking there. He had to give up his sword and take up his dagger again, but he'd been having better luck with it anyway. But Ashram had a second weapon ready, too, wielding a morning star, and she was faster. The massive spiky ball went smashing into Squeak's side.

  It felt as though she'd knocked his torso clean away from the rest of his body, and he staggered, determined to stay on his feet. His knees had turned to liquid, but he had to stay up. Falling would mean he could be judged out. He had only his dagger now, and his own fists, but he felt he'd need more against this fierce warrior. She was relentless, attacking again, this time from above. Steps all wobbly, Squeak still managed to dodge, again and again and again. It became automatic as his mind tried to catch up with his thoughts. Should he give in? Would Lucy be happy with someone like Ashram? Ashram clearly cared; he could hear it in the little desperate sounds of effort she released with each move. But he couldn't assume. He simply had to win.

  He needed to end this. Now. He wanted to surprise his father, embrace his sister, and then explore Nigel's mouth with his tongue. He was a simple man with simple needs. The thought caused him to let out a laugh, which surprised Ashram enough for him to gain a bit more purchase. Instead of dodging this time, Squeak threw his shoulder into the path of her morning star. Pain ricocheted through his armor, making his arm numb, but it also brought him good and close, the pint of his dagger against her stomach, scratching against her own steel coating. He knew it, she knew it, and, in a few seconds, with a wave of his flag, the judge knew it, too. Squeak had landed a winning stab, one they concluded would have killed in a normal fight.

  It was done. It was over. Squeak had actually won. As the crowd exploded in che
ers and the musicians struck up a rousing fanfare, the judge lifted up his arm and the announcer bellowed out his name. All he could do was cry tears of relief and happiness. He could scarcely believe it, feeling suddenly numb, but it was all true. He'd done it. He'd actually done it.

  "Oh, Lucy," he sighed quietly to himself. Scanning the crowd, he finally found her, and he swore her eyes were shining with the wetness of tears, too.

  The moment of overwhelming satisfaction was cut short, though, with the realization that he was now going to be presented to the king. The implications immediately made him sick to his stomach. Would his father even recognize him? If he did, what would happen? Squeak didn't know what would be worse: King Roland would be furious to see him again and punish him accordingly, or he might not even know who he was. He didn't know which would be the worst scenario.

  Wildly, he sought to catch Lucy's eyes, but there was no way he could communicate with her at such a distance. She was pale with the same worried dread that Squeak felt for himself, her hand outstretched for the king's shoulder, ready to comfort him, console him, hold him back. He felt a sharp elbow to his side. "Remove your helm," the judge hissed.

  "Do I have to?" he asked. If they could only wait for some private moment, to sit and discuss with the king what had transpired and what they wanted to do. Caught off guard, the king could get angry, violent, unpredictable. Squeak swallowed hard, adding to the pit in his stomach. He should have let one of the others take him down while he had the chance.