Before he could place the medal around the black knight's neck, Jamie rushed into the ring.
"Wait!" she said.
The crowds fell silent.
Everyone stared at her.
Jamie felt her face flush with stage fright, and she raised her chin. "You haven't defeated me yet," she said to Sir Veldor, the black knight.
For a moment everyone just stared silently. Then they began to laugh.
"You?" Sir Veldor said. "You're not a knight. Be gone, pup. Return once you've grown a foot and bought a breastplate."
The crowds laughed harder, and Jamie felt rage filling her. She drew her sword, which was nearly as long as she was tall, and held it high. "Do you see this blade?" she demanded. "It belonged to my father, Sir Sam Thistle of Burrfield. Yes, I am small. No, I am not a knight. But I have the blood of knighthood in me. Fight me, Veldor, or all will know that you feared a fifteen-year-old girl."
The crowd oohed. A challenge—they liked that. Sir Veldor lifted his visor, revealing a leathery face and black mustache. He gave Jamie a hard look, spat, and slammed his visor shut.
"Let us see this blood of knighthood you speak of," he said. "I will spill it for all to see."
The judge backed away, and Jamie tossed aside her cloak. She remained before Veldor wearing only leggings, boots, and a tunic. Other than the vambraces on her forearms and the greaves on her shins, she owned no armor, not even a helmet. The black knight stepped toward her, covered in metal, towering over her. She stood under five feet; Veldor stood almost as tall as Scruff, each of his arms the size of her entire body. Jamie raised her shield, gulping, sudden fear flooding her. Have I made a huge mistake? The other knights were covered in plate armor; she would die of a single sword stroke. Was this suicide?
Before she could collect herself, Veldor rushed at her, swinging down his sword. There was no time for regrets now. Jamie raised her shield.
Veldor's blade slammed into the wooden shield, sending splinters flying. Jamie couldn't help but yelp in pain. Veldor was strong, and his blow against her shield nearly dislocated her shoulder. She had blocked sword blows before, but only from squires using wooden blades, not a burly champion knight. As Veldor slammed his blade down again, Jamie barely blocked the blow, and more splinters flew. Her shield wouldn't survive much more of this punishment. Fear flooded her. Surely they won't let Veldor kill me, she thought. Would they?
Veldor's sword landed a third time, cracking the shield; Jamie saw the tip of the blade emerge near her face, missing her eye by an inch. Now's my chance. The blade was stuck in the shield. Jamie yanked her shield, tugging Veldor aside, then leaped up and swiped her sword.
Her blade clanked against Veldor's breastplate, sending trembles up Jamie's arm. It was the hardest blow she could deal, but it didn't even scratch Veldor's armor. Damn. Was there nothing she could do?
I can't do this, she thought, tears stinging her eyes. I was stupid to think I'm a fighter. I'm too small... just a runt.
Veldor thrust again, and Jamie raised her shield. It was the final straw. Her shield split in half, showering splinters. The crowd cheered, clapping, howling, and stamping their feet. "Veldor, Veldor!" they chanted.
Cursing, Jamie tossed her shattered shield aside. His blade flew. She parried. Sparks rose between the blades, and pain raced up Jamie's arms. Veldor towered over her in his black armor, his vulture helmet monstrous. Suddenly Jamie understood why Romy feared birds. She stood before this beast with nothing but old iron strapped onto her limbs; no shield, no breastplate no helmet. Jamie parried left and right, squinting. More sword blows fell, and it was all Jamie could do to check them. One blow passed her defenses and bit her shoulder, grazing the flesh, shedding blood.
Jamie knew she was going to die.
Not so soon! whispered a voice in her head. Jamie panted, parrying those blows as fast as she could, her arms aching. She could not last much longer. Who had spoken? Was it Father's voice speaking in her mind?
Fight on your own terms—use your speed.
Whether it was Father or her subconscious speaking, it was sound advice. If Jamie wanted to live, she'd have to stop this game of thrust and parry and start tiring Veldor out. Luckily, Veldor had fought a dozen knights today, and had barely caught his breath since defeating the white knight. He can't have much more energy. If Jamie could just keep him moving long enough, sooner or later, he'd slow down.
She ran to the back of the stage.
The crowed booed, but Jamie did not care. Let them call me a coward. Veldor came racing toward her, and Jamie slipped between his legs, emerging behind him. She landed her sword on the back of his helmet.
This the crowd liked. Everyone cheered wildly. "Thistle, Thistle!" a few began to chant.
Grinning, Jamie leaped back as Veldor spun toward her. He swiped his weapon. Instead of parrying—her arms would not survive much more of that—Jamie leaped back. Veldor's blade cut through air.
Jamie moved like a mouse fighting an elephant. Wherever Veldor went, she leaped away, ran around him, and landed her sword on his back. Soon scratches appeared on the back of his helmet, and the blows to his head—while not cutting the metal—were no doubt giving him a whopping headache. The crowd was all chanting for her. "Thistle, Thistle!" they cried, and Jamie had never felt so elevated. It was wonderful. She, little Jamie of Burrfield, was going to beat a seasoned, champion knight! She had never felt such glory.
She slipped around Veldor's feet again, raised her sword, and was about to land it against his helmet.
Then something happened.
It happened so fast, Jamie could hardly believe it was real. No. It couldn't be. But it was. A skeleton's hand, nothing but bones, appeared out of the ground. It grabbed her ankle, and Jamie fell.
The crowd gasped.
Veldor's blade came down.
Jamie checked the blow, screaming in pain. That blow nearly knocked her arms out of their sockets. She scurried up and ran a few paces away, panting. Veldor followed, and she parried again. It was a moment before she regained her stride.
What was that? What had happened? Surely there was no such thing as skeletal hands emerging from the ground. She must have imagined it. Nobody seemed to notice anything other than her falling.
Jamie wanted this fight to end. She snarled, raced around Veldor, and slammed her sword. As he spun toward her, she ran again, emerging behind him. She prepared to land a mighty blow against his helmet, maybe mighty enough to knock him out.
The skeleton's hand appeared again.
It materialized out of the ground and grabbed her foot. She fell, and Veldor's sword came down. Jamie rolled, and the sword bit her arm. Jamie screamed. It wasn't a mortal wound, but enough to hurt and bleed.
The crowd was gasping and shouting. Jamie leaped to her feet and kept parrying. She would not survive much longer. She had to knock out Veldor. What was that hand? What evil warlock was doing this? She remembered the stories of Neev's Coven and the skeleton Dry Bones; could it be him?
She had no time to ponder. Veldor was after her, howling, his sword blows terrible. One hit her arm, denting her vambrace, nearly snapping her bone. Jamie ran back, then around Veldor again. She raised her blade.
Sure enough, the skeletal hand burst from the ground.
Jamie stepped on it, slamming her foot down with all her might. She felt finger bones shatter. The hand vanished.
Before Veldor could thrust his blade, she slammed her sword against the side of his head. Again. A third time. Veldor seemed dazed. He tried to swipe back, but his movements were slow, and she parried, then slammed her sword against his helmet. Again. She kicked him, and he fell.
He fell!
The crowd roared, a sound so loud, it nearly deafened Jamie. She was so weak, she could barely move, but she sucked in her breath and slammed her sword down onto Veldor's helmet. She slammed down again and again, Veldor moaning, until he lay still.
She nudged him with his foot.
He would not
move.
The judge counted to three, then announced, "Thistle wins!"
Jamie had never heard cheering so loud. It flowed over her, spinning her head. The world seemed to swirl around her. She wanted to raise her arms to the crowd, but couldn't; they hurt too badly. Panting, she made do with a smile.
She sheathed her sword, and the judge placed the golden medal around her neck. As the crowd cheered, Jamie wanted to bask in her glory, to memorize this moment so that decades later, she could tell the story detail by detail. But she could not. She kept thinking about the skeletal hand.
The grobblers who killed her parents. The moldmen who attacked them. This skeleton underground. Somehow they must be linked, Jamie thought.
Somebody, or something, was out to get them. As the judge extolled her virtues to the multitudes, Jamie shivered.
Chapter Twelve
Dry Bones in Love
Dry Bones stood behind an alehouse, cradling his broken hand.
Ouch.
He had come so close to killing Jamie nicely and discreetly. Then she had stepped on his fingers. For such a diminutive girl, she was surprisingly strong. Two of his fingers had cracked and nearly snapped off.
Cloaked in black, Dry Bones knelt in the dirt, pulled out a spellbook, and began to leaf through it. He was not a great healer. Like all warlocks, he specialized in black magic; he could summon moldmen, grobblers, and the like with ease. When it came to white magic, such as healing, he was a novice. Most warlocks were, for healing spells were the opposite of their dark arts. It was long moments before he found the spell he needed. "Bone Mending", the page was titled.
"There we go," Dry Bones said. The spell was geared toward people with flesh and blood, but Dry Bones figured it would work just as well for a skeleton. He uttered the spell, and his finger bones trembled, flickered with white sparks, and sent warm waves across him, the way wine would when he could still drink it. Before his eyes (or at least, the empty sockets where his eyes once blinked), his finger bones healed.
A useful spell. I should memorize this one.
Dry Bones straightened, leaned against the back of the alehouse, and contemplated his next move. Two days ago, he had picked up the Thistle Kids' trail and had followed them here. To be honest, he had expected to kill them already. His moldmen, Issa, and even his giant spider had failed. The Bullies were lucky, he thought. But no more Mr. Nice Skeleton.
Unfortunately, killing Jamie had failed too, and Dry Bones tapped his chin. Who to go after now? After a moment's contemplation, he decided that killing Scruff should be easy. The brute had signed up for the Feats of Strength, which involved lifting barrels over your head. A barbaric sport, but useful today. Dry Bones would wait until the barrels were over Scruff's head, then cast a spell to make them ten times heavier. They would fall and kill him, much like Scruff himself had killed Issa. Ironic.
"You know, Baumgartner, I really am a genius," he said. "I don't know if you appreciate that."
He opened his cloak and gazed at his pet snake. Baumgartner lay coiled up inside Dry Bones' rib cage, hissing. Dry Bones smiled and patted the snake's head.
"Good boy," he said, pulled a dead mouse from his pocket, and fed it to the snake. Baumgartner bolted it down and licked his chops.
Dry Bones fastened his cloak and pulled his hood over his head. His grobblers too were cloaked and hooded, ten of them spread throughout Queenpool, watching the Bullies, awaiting his command. Dry Bones hoped he wouldn't need them—he preferred to kill the Thistle Kids by staging accidents, which was safer in a city this size—but you never knew when a few grobblers would come in handy.
After making sure that he was fully concealed in his cloak, Dry Bones stepped from behind the alehouse and made his way through the fair. Jesters juggled around him, maidens hawked tankards of ale, and drunk men stumbled about, voices raised in song. Idiots, all of them, Dry Bones thought. Why would anyone want to waste their life drinking and partying? There was so much to study, so much to learn and accomplish. I guess that's what separates me from the commoners.
Dry Bones spotted the Feats of Strength ahead. A group of musclemen stood upon a stage, lifting barrels. Scruff stood among them, tallest and burliest. Dry Bones began to utter a spell that would make Scruff's barrel ten times heavier. That should break his head, nice and easy. Dry Bones had uttered the first few words when something caught his eye, and the spell petered away.
It was a woman. But no ordinary woman—this was a spiderling maiden, her skin lavender and her milky hair glowing, so pure among the rowdy drunkards, a purple flower growing from a field of thorns. Or thistles, Dry Bones thought wryly. This spiderling maiden must be Cobweb, the companion of the Thistle Kids. Several of his crows, spies who had been following the Bullies, had returned news of her.
But they had not told Dry Bones how beautiful she was.
She was so beautiful, that if Dry Bones had lungs, his breath would die. She stood not a hundred yards away, shooting arrows from her bow into targets. She could as well have been cupid, shooting arrows of love into Dry Bones' heart—or at least, into his ribcage where his heart would once beat. Cobweb's hair seemed woven of gossamer, cascading down her back, not a strand out of place. With his hawklike vision, Dry Bones could see that her eyes were blue as sapphires, her ears were pointy, and golden freckles covered her small nose. It had been years since Dry Bones had loved a woman, but Cobweb stirred all those memories in him, raising fire in their ashes. She looked like an angel, he thought, an angel sent from heaven to cure his weary heart.
Nice boobs, too, he thought.
Dry Bones was vaguely aware that in the background, Scruff was winning the Feats of Strength and earning a gold medal, but he didn't care. I'll kill that brute later, he thought, unable to tear his gaze away from Cobweb. She was hitting every bullseye, winning the archery contest. I will have her, Dry Bones thought. It was not every day one found a spiderling maiden. She will be my wife, he decided.
Dry Bones began to move through the crowd, shoving peasants aside, heading toward Cobweb. By the time he reached her, she had hit her last target.
"Winner!" the judge called. "The spiderling wins first place."
Cobweb beamed. "I won!" she said, gazing around with a grin, her teeth sparkling.
Dry Bones nodded to her, keeping his head lowered, careful to keep his skull hidden in the shadows of his hood. "Congratulations, my lady," he said.
"T-tank you," Cobweb said and touched his shoulder, sending pleasure through Dry Bones. Then she was gone, swept forward by the crowd to a podium, where a judge placed a gold medal around her neck.
Dry Bones waited until the medal ceremony was over, then followed Cobweb as she moved through the fair, glowing, an angel among mortals. As Dry Bones walked, he signaled to his grobblers to join him, following Cobweb.
When Cobweb passed by an alley, Dry Bones nodded to a grobbler. The cloaked monster nodded back, grabbed Cobweb, and pulled her into the alley. Dry Bones glanced behind him. Nobody saw a thing. Perfect. Dry Bones nodded, then stepped into the alley.
In the shadows, Cobweb was struggling, but the grobbler held her fast, covering her mouth. Struggling and frightened, she looked more beautiful than ever. Her chest rose and fell, and her cheeks flushed. She kicked wildly, but could not free herself. Grobblers were stronger even than Scruff, and few could escape their clutches.
"Don't be afraid," Dry Bones said and stepped toward her. He pulled back his hood, revealing his skull. Cobweb's eyes widened and she screamed into the grobbler's warty, wrinkled hand. Dry Bones laughed and rummaged through his pockets. He thought he had a love potion lying around; he usually carried one for cases like this. Things would be much easier if Cobweb fell in love with him. He could already imagine her kisses. If he still had a heart, it would skip a beat at the thought.
"Ah! Here we go," he said and produced the potion from his pocket. He took a step closer to Cobweb. "Drink this, my darling."
She kicked. Her foot hit the pot
ion, and it flew from his hands.
"Damn it!" Dry Bones said and knelt to grab the potion. He caught it, and a second later Cobweb's foot kicked his chin, knocking back his skull.
Dry Bones howled and lashed forward, trying to grab Cobweb's foot, but accidentally grabbed the grobbler's leg and tripped her. The grobbler shrieked and fell, crashing against the cobblestones. In the confusion, Cobweb managed to wriggle free and escape the alley, screaming.
Dry Bones turned to watch her disappear into the crowd. He sighed.
He looked back to the grobbler. "I'm having one of those days," he said. The grobbler nodded sympathetically.
Inside his ribcage, Baumgartner hissed a chuckle.
"Oh, shut up," Dry Bones said.
* * * * *
At sunset, the fair ended with a bray of trumpets, the release of a hundred doves, and a closing ceremony atop the central stage. I'm sad to see it over, Scruff thought. It was the first day he'd had fun since, well.... He couldn't even remember the last day he had fun. As he watched the doves flutter against the sunset, he suddenly felt more sad than he'd ever been, though he could not guess why. He looked at Cobweb, standing beautiful in the sunset, her gossamer hair glittering. She caught his glance and smiled back, setting his heart aflutter like the doves. Am I sad because I want to hold her hand, to kiss her, but dare not?
Cobweb's golden medal twinkled against her chest, hanging from a blue ribbon, the medal she won at the archery contest. Scruff wore the medal he won at the strongman competition, while Jamie and Neev wore medals won at their events. I wish we didn't have to sell them, Scruff thought, caressing his medal. But they were strapped for cash. The medals would have to go.
"Why so sad?" Jamie asked, nudging him.
Scruff looked at his feet. "The sunset always makes me feel this way."
Before his sister could answer, the trumpets blared with new vigor, and Scruff raised his eyes to see the Lord of Queenpool step onto the center stage, the same stage where Neev and Romy had performed. Sporting a long beard, a samite cape, and opulent jewels, the lord addressed the crowds.
Eye of the Wizard: A Fantasy Adventure Page 14