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Their guest suite balcony was the perfect place to practice his swordplay. Henry held his broadsword out before him, hands easy but firm around the grip, and took deep breaths. He stared at the polished blade, and the bearded, frowning face of the regent king stared right back at him. His mind formed three imaginary enemies before him before he bolted into action. He lunged his sword at the ankles of one opponent, then followed with an upward swing to block a blade heading for his neck. It parried, and he swung the sword back at one of the wrists. His third enemy was at his side. He completed his sword swing by rolling past the third enemy, and then did a back kick to knock them over. The other two dove upon Henry, and he rolled to the side, letting his sword swing out to catch the wrist of one. Cloths on the wrist, cloths on the ankles. That would be the Tournament of Swords.
“Dada!”
Henry jumped to his feet, eyes wide as a little boy ran at him and jammed a wood knife into his thigh. Henry grunted a the pain that flared from that little point, then laughed and bent over to hug Devin.
“That’s my boy!” he said. “Catch your enemy off-guard. Perfect!”
“You can’t be caught off-guard if you are to win anything in the Tournament.”
He grinned at Sabra as she leaned against the doorway and eyed his sword. She wore a simple dress and long-coat, a stark contrast to her sometimes billowing formal attire. Henry sighed, his breath forming a cloud in the nippy, humid air.
“I wish you would have signed up for the Tournament,” Henry said. “You could have signed into the Novice rounds.”
“So I could show off how much you have taught me with the dagger?” Sabra replied with a grin. Devin pranced to her, and she lifted him onto her hip and fingered his knife. “If we were both out there, Devin would want to sign up too. We’ll watch our mighty dada win, won’t we, little love?”
“Dada win!” Devin cried, lifting his knife to the sky.
“I happen to be a very good teacher!” Henry protested, sheathing his sword. “If not for me that dagger would just be a decoration on your lovely waist.”
Devin wiggled out of Sabra’s grasp and ran back inside. Sabra came to Henry, pulling him into an embrace, and kissed his cheek.
“I know you’re a good teacher,” she whispered. Their noses touched. “You will teach the other contestants a thing or two about swordplay.”
Henry hummed and kissed her, breathing her in. She had recently bathed and smelled of her favorite rose-scented soap, and she was so warm and soft in his arms…but he would have to wait to indulge himself any further with Sabra until after the Tournament that afternoon. He pulled away reluctantly before offering an arm, and he led her inside and closed the glass balcony door.
After lunch, the royal family and their escort made their way down to the throne room. It had been a week since the stone griffins had blown a hole through the wall, and Tasaru had temporarily patched it up with stone and mortar. Henry hoped the Molouks would be able to get a window of Luna back up; through Sabra, he had grown to like the quirky demi-goddess.
All the contestants were meeting on one side of the enormous room, lining up at three different tables, and the spectators were meeting on the other side. Henry kissed his family a temporarily farewell before he, Sabra’s bodyguard Eveningstar, and Captain Eric Fahleye made their way to the tables.
“I thought you didn’t want to fight?” Henry said to Eveningstar. The black lizardman watched Henry askance.
“I signed up as a Master,” Eric said. “What about you, boy? Experienced, perhaps?”
“Last time I was here, I was Experienced, but I signed up as a Master,” Henry said. He gestured to Eveningstar. “And you? Did you sign up as a Novice?”
“You are hilariousss, My Lord,” Eveningstar said dryly.
Eveningstar held both a grudging respect and a rivalry for Henry, as Henry also served as a guard to the girl this Crin had been protecting since her infancy. Now that Henry was married to her and was Regent King of Zanoll, Eveningstar was forced to treat him with respect … at least outside of a fighting ring. A tight sensation wrapped itself around Henry’s lungs. What if he ended up fighting Eveningstar? All while Sabra was watching them? He took a deep breath. If he did, it was all in good fun.
The three moved into line at the Master table. Henry let Eric and Eveningstar go ahead of him while he rubbed his sword pommel and tilted his head back at the windows lining the domed ceiling.
“Humans? Competing against non-humans? This should be fun.”
Henry turned. Standing behind him were two Unia’a, and he stared at their skin. Glowing light blue lines swirled and coursed over their faces and hands, continuing under their thick black and orange clothing. The one who had spoken had long, black hair, and the other had shorter black hair.
“Perhaps you would do better at the toddler table,” said the elf with short hair, pointing to the Novice sign-up table.
Who did these foreigners think they were? Henry immediately deduced they belonged with the stone griffins, although their third companion was nowhere in sight. He was tempted to snap back at them, but being Regent King under Sabra’s guiding hand had reined back his temper some. He twitched his lip and instead bowed his head to them.
“You must be here for the E’lsra,” Henry said. “I’m afraid you caught my friend Tasaru off-guard.”
“Since she’s wasting our time, we decided to have a little fun while we wait for her to make up her mind,” said long-hair. He lifted a dark brow. “Who are you, anyway? What business do you humans have in Ramirra?”
Eric and Eveningstar were now watching the conversation unfold. Henry wrinkled his brows and folded his arms.
“I am here for the Summit of Crowns,” he said, wrestling the condescension out of his tone. “I am Regent King Henry of Zanoll, husband to Queen Sabra of Zanoll.”
“The Unia’a?” murmured short-hair. Both leaned back slightly from Henry, disgust contorting their expressions. “She shares her body with a human?”
“That is…one way to put it,” Henry said. These men couldn’t be serious. Intermarriage between humans and elves in the Southern Isles wasn’t terribly common, but it wasn’t unheard of either. He smiled. “What? Don’t you have any beautiful women in Tyrell?”
Both of them moved out of line and headed to the back where a couple Molouks had just arrived.
“What was that all about?” Eric hissed.
“I have heard Tyrellan elvesss find racial intermarriage taboo,” Eveningstar said. “Though I too am sssurprised Her Majesty chose this scoundrel as her husssband.”
“You are hilarious, Eveningstar,” Henry muttered. He shook his head and turned back to the line, trying to shove the foreigners from the forefront of his thoughts.
Once Henry made it to the table, he marked a roster to show he had arrived and was given forty golden ribbons. For each round he remained in the tournament, he would tie a band to each of his wrists and his ankles; the goal of each match was to slice the ribbons from his opponents limbs. There were a total of eight rounds for each entrant level, including Novices, Experienced, and Masters, and depending on how many people signed up for each level, a certain amount of matches in each round. There would be a champion for each level. Henry immediately tied a ribbon around his gauntlets and shin guards, the only armor he was allowed to wear. The Tournament would take up the rest of that day and all the following day, a blood-stirring, exciting conclusion to the Summit of Crowns.
Within the hour all the contestants had checked in and tied on their first set of ribbons. The palace guards made a fence between them and the center of the throne-room floor. A deep rumble vibrated up Henry’s legs, and soon after the circular center of the floor gently lowered. The surrounding floor followed, creating circular rings of stone steps only broken by two longer slabs of stone. Many of the people there began cheering, especially the Molouks. Henry winced at the cacophony this created, looking up to search for Sabra and Devin amid the crowd on the other side of the room, but they were lost amid all the movement of excited sentients.
The mechanisms under the floor groaned as the arena finished lowering, and silence fell. Henry quirked his mustache at the explosive rush of water somewhere down below. The Molouks howled and screeched, and he clapped his hands over his ears; they would start bleeding if these blasted saurians were any louder! The water stopped rushing, and the Tournament announcer, a saurian wearing a helmet that amplified his voice, came to the top of the sunken arena.
“All Master contestants, please make your way through the Green Door and into the basement,” he said, his voice containing an ethereal echo from the magicked helm. “All remaining contestants are allowed to sit on the top three rows of the arena; all guests, please proceed to your seats. The Tournament will start within two quarters.”
“Guess that’s us,” Eric grunted. He nodded his head. “And our glowing elves.”
The northern elves passed by the trio without a glance to the side, flowing towards an arched door in the western side of the throne room whose keystone had been painted bright green. Henry, Eric, and Eveningstar got into a line that passed into a hall lined with several doors. Molouks stood at intervals to guide them to a stairway that dove into the palace’s underbelly. Feet, claws, and hooves created a hollow, rapid tapping in the arched stairwell, and joining it came the gentle slosh of water. They emerged onto a platform, connected by a bridge to the arena floor. Above them was the underside of the lowered arena seating, held up by by horizontal beams of steel, with round, intricate joints that could bend and return the stones to the level floor. Small, snake-like figures darted along the beams, keeping to the shadows.
Henry moved to the front of the contestants, where more palace guards, the arena manager and his assistants, and referees blocked the bridge. On the other side of the arena floor was another platform and doorway, where contestants would exit after their matches. Just above this platform sat Sabra, Devin, and several of the Knights of Mal’ur. She waved to Henry, and he raised a hand with a smile.
Eveningstar made his way to Henry’s side and grumbled something under his breath. Henry glanced at him with a lopsided frown. When he wouldn’t relent his stare, Eveningstar gave a sigh.
“I ssshould be besside her, not down here playing gamess with my hung-aria,” he said.
“Then why are you?” Henry asked.
“Her Majesssty is concerned with the stone griffinsss and their Unia’a,” Eveningstar said, lowering his voice. He swerved his head around to make sure the two glowing elves weren’t paying attention to them, and he ducked his head closer to Henry. “I am a show of armsss, as is Captain Eric.”
“Show of arms,” Henry murmured, looking for Eric. The old man was examining his bastard sword, which several participants around him eyed askance. It was a powerful weapon; it took a fine swordsman to use it for the finesse of cutting ribbons away from an opponent without seriously harming them. He grunted. “Well, we’ll get to show her some fancy sword-play anyway.”
All the contestants had some sort of blade weapon, the only kind allowed in the Tournament of Swords. The contestants stopped their chatter as the Tournament announcer boomed something above them, causing the spectators to applaud and yell. Another Molouk appeared from behind the group, holding a clipboard and a writing stick.
“Listen up!” he boomed. He came to the referees and faced them. “Let’s get through this quick. Round One, Match One: Henry Bunckle, Call’u Ainu’u, Rush of Maldon, and Zephyr Krohn. You’re on stage!”
The four came to the referees and their assistants. Henry handed his bundle of extra ribbons to one assistant. Zephyr stepped up beside him and gave his to the second assistant. He wore an ornately stitched black and green kilt, and had polished his skin with a musky oil. He wore his Draconite helm and his plated gauntlets with green cabachons on the back of either hand; part of the ribbons went under the plating.
“Wait a minute,” Henry protested. “No extra armor in the Tournament of Swords! And those gauntlets aren’t standard like the rest of ours.”
“Draconite Zephyr is granted an exemption for his helm should he need to contact the other Draconite warriors in an emergency,” one of the referees said. “However, there is a catch: if the helm falls off, he automatically forfeits the round.” He twitched a long, slim ear. “Besides, you can’t seriously ask me to separate a Draconite from his Gift?”
Henry stared hard at those emerald-like jewels, and an inner light within them seemed to turn to Henry. The hairs lifted on the back of his neck, and he shook his head.
“Good to know about the helm,” Henry said with a smile. The Molouk stared at Henry, the delicate layering and contours of the helm glinting in the skylights far above.
“Don’t even think about it, Lord Henry,” Zephyr murmured before marching past the referees. The audience roared as the Draconite became the first to step onto the platform, whipping out his zaynthra and raising it. Henry made his way across the bridge, shaking his head as several Molouks began singing a song about Zephyr; it was all in Erskan, but it was certainly about the green and black warrior. Zephyr turned to encompass the whole arena, stopping to face Tasaru, who sat not too far from Sabra and Devin.
Henry stood a ways off from Zephyr, drawing his broadsword and giving it a casual twirl. Call’u, a female centaur with palomino coloring, came beside Henry with a pair of shortswords, and then Rush, a young man wearing Ramirran-style clothing and also wielding a zaynthra. He had a split triangle tattooed under an ear, a common marking among non-Molouk Ramirran citizens.
One of the referees followed Rush onto the arena floor and held up a clawed hand for attention. The crowds finally calmed down after singing their anthem about Zephyr.
“Master Round One, Match One, limit: fifteen minutes, one winner,” the referee announced, voice booming. “Each competitor, to his or her own quarter of the circle.”
Henry made his way to one side of the circular platform, where a large red dot had been painted, and glared at Zephyr, moving his mind into a fight. The Draconite warrior was the most powerful out of his three competitors, and needed to go down first. Rush kept throwing looks at Zephyr as well. Perhaps there was a chance to work together and take him and his ego down in the first match. Call’u had closed her eyes, taking deep breaths.
The referee lifted a whistle from his hip and gave four, sharp blows. Henry sprinted at Zephyr with a grimace, keeping his sword near his hip in crop position. As he had guessed, Rush targeted Zephyr as well, and Call’u galloped at Rush. Zephyr cocked his head, crouching and holding his zaynthra tip-down. Rush got to him first, feinting to the side before arcing the sword high. Zephyr twisted his body to meet it. Blue sparks flew as the water-tempered swords met. Henry lunged low at that moment and succeeded at slicing off a ribbon from Zephyr’s ankle, leaving a shallow cut in his skin. The Draconite snarled and kicked Henry in the face.
He may as well have been kicked by a horse. Henry tumbled back, slamming his head against the floor with blood flying from his nose. Call’u got the ribbons off both his ankles as he thrashed back onto his feet, the world tilting in a whirl of black and white dots. He lashed out at her, grimacing. She danced away, and Henry’s sight refocused as he began to spar with her, aiming for her thick wrists. She had a height advantage on him, along with strength, but he was quicker. He managed to throw a heavy slice off to the side, giving him a second to cut off a ribbon from her front right hoof. She punched him in the arm, maybe hoping to knock him over, but he kept his feet perpendicular to each other and retaliated by slashing a ribbon from her wrist.
Zephyr suddenly bowled against Callu’u’s left flank, and she tumbled head-over-hoof with a horse-like scream. The Draconite quickly dispatched her remaining ribbons before turning on Henry in the same fluid movements. It was like trying to stop an ocean wave, but Henry pressed against the zaynthra. Up down, left right, parry, feint, parry, a twisting strike to disarm him — and Zephyr’s sword went flying. Henry barked a laugh and slashed off Zephyr’s last ribbon on his wrist, and then jerked around, sword held ready lest Rush come at him — but Zephyr had already taken the other human out of the match. Henry caught his breath, his system pumped with adrenaline, and licked nose-blood from his lips.
The crowds erupted in a mix of booing and cheering. Sabra was standing and yelling at the top of her lungs for him, a startling contrast to her normally reserved appearance. An uncontrollable laugh erupted from him as he held his sword to her.
For the rest of the afternoon and evening, the Masters danced with their swords. Henry made it through three more matches, and by the end of that fourth one, he was ready to collapse. Sabra had left hours before to spend some time with Devin and make sure he got to bed.
He sat at one of several benches as a Molouk aide making rounds to the contestants brought Henry a bandage to wrap around his bleeding bicep. Though chopping off limbs was forbidden in the Tournament, he had had a few close calls with warriors who lacked self-control. At least the last fool hadn’t severed an artery. He murmured a thank-you as the aide undid the last bandage, washed the wound, put new salve on, and finished with a new bandage.
“That should hold you until the final match, King Henry,” she said.
“Again, thanks,” he said.
Only one more match. The final round. The second-to-last match was in progress, and its winner would be one of four final contestants. He hoped that coppery hulk Demos didn’t win; he was the only Draconite who had made it this far into the competition. Henry turned his newly bandaged arm as the aide moved away and glanced himself over. His clothing had several rips and bloodstains, and Sabra would insist that he toss the outfit once he was finished. He laughed softly at the thought of chasing her around trying to give her a hug in it while she protested.
“You’ll have nothing to laugh about in the last match, human.”
Long-hair Glowing Elf. At least, that’s how Henry thought of him. His real name was Zarin. Re’sgalan Zarin, as they announced him. Zarin stood before Henry, wringing a bloodstained hand around his sheathed, curved sword. He had acquired a long, thin cut across his brow and cheek, the work of a Hakaan, and Zarin had been so displeased he had nearly disqualified himself by attacking the lupogryph after the lupogryph had already lost all his ribbons. Only because he was a royal ambassador from Tyrell had he been granted one more chance to fight. Henry planned on thrashing him; his ego was worse than Zephyr’s. Henry twisted his mouth downward.
“I would think you would be spending more time preparing for the last match than speaking to the scum of Libera,” Henry said.
“It’s so fun to watch scum squirm and rethink its pitiful life,” Zarin said evenly.
Henry stood.
“As much as I enjoy trading insults with a man who blew up my friend’s home, I do have some prep to do, Sir Zarin,” Henry said. He turned away, looking to wash his face in one of the wall basins.
“I hope you enjoy time with your outcast wife after you lose, human.”
Henry halted, a cold fire sliding through him. He turned to glare at Zarin.
“What in Den’verden are you talking about?” he demanded.
“She’s an impure islander dog, barely worthy to be a branch of Tyrell, inbreeding in the middle of nowhere,” Zarin said, keeping his voice light. He gave Henry a challenging smile. “Hm. I guess she’s well-suited to you.”
Before he became king, Henry may have jumped onto this sorry excuse for a Unia’a and pounded his face into the stone for insulting the love of his life. However, Sabra’s training managed to rein him back once more, and he didn’t want to forfeit his chance of winning the Tournament. What would she say? Henry squinted an eye and took a deep breath.
“I don’t deserve her,” he finally said. “But at least she knows how to be kind.”
Zarin straightened with a scowl before whirling on his black boots and marching to the room exit. Henry let out a short growl before he went to the basin to wash.
In just under a quarter, the match finished, and the weary competitors made their way into the anteroom. Demos had lost all his ribbons, and his ears were lain flat against his raised, cream-colored mane. A deep, nearly indiscernible growl rumbled from him, and he marched roughly past a Crin coming through the same door. Henry waved to him, but if Demos marked it through his red helm-sight, Henry couldn’t tell. The Draconite ignored the aides that approached him and went through the anteroom exit, done with the Tournament of Swords.
The Crin woman had won that round. She was tall and thin, several of her bright blue scales battered from her fights, and had managed to save the ribbon on her off wrist. The arena manager, the first Molouk who had told which competitors to get into the arena, followed the last group in.
“Ten minutes!” he called. “Then it’s Henry Bunckle, Re’sgalan Zarin, Ophelia Wills, and Warlock Eveningstar to the entry platform.”
The old lizard had done well to make it this far; his tenacity and determination to please Sabra, even if she had to step away from the Tournament for a short time to care for Devin, was both admirable and terrifying. Would it be proper for Henry to compete against Eveningstar, when the Crin was on direct order to make a successful show of arms? Henry stomped his feet and swung his arms. There was a simple solution. Let Eveningstar win. Eveningstar would feel he had done his duty, and Zarin would be crushed all in the same fifteen minutes. Maybe he and Eveningstar could gang up on that pig-nosed elf before facing each other.
Henry left the anteroom, walked a long, curving hallway, and emerged onto the entry platform. He rubbed his eyes. It was past ten o’clock, with a gibbous moon well into the sky by now. He glanced around the benches, freezing when his eyes found Sabra. She waved to him, and he smiled. During the afternoon she had left for a time, along with half the spectators that had been there, to make sure Devin was tucked in for the night. However, as the Master level competition approached its end, spectators had filled it back up, but were much quieter as they waited with baited breath for the Master Summit Champion. He spotted Zarin’s brother, the Re’sgalan Darrin, sitting like a glowbug in the middle of the lantern-lit crowds. Still no third Re’sgalan, though. Maybe he had volunteered to stay behind at their campsite.
Zarin stepped up beside Henry, running a thumb over the edge of his brown-colored saber. Eveningstar and Ophelia arrived soon after, the two Crin muttering something to each other. The black lizardman squeezed her hand before coming to Henry’s other side, and she stood on the other side of Zarin, bouncing a curved cleaver against one shoulder. Henry winked at Eveningstar, but he ignored him, head jutting forward and eyes narrowed.
“I may not like the outcast, but Darrin is a different matter,” Zarin commented smoothly. “Beautiful thing, for being a mutt. He told me how he planned on bedding her after the Tournament.”
Henry scowled at the Re’sgalan. Zarin continued to eye his weapon, stroking it lovingly. Henry gestured.
“If he touches her, I’ll — “
“My King, don’t,” Eveningstar whispered, grabbing Henry’s shoulder. “He isss simply getting under your ssskin.”
“Yeah, I know,” Henry hissed, yanking his shoulder away. He looked at Sabra, who watched him with concern. “Let’s get this over with.”
“Let us,” Zarin agreed.
One of the referees called them into the arena, and they stood on their colored dots. Henry wrung his sword handle, the familiar leather bindings creaking under his strength, and held it in crop. He stared at the center of the arena floor as to not clue Zarin in to who he would attack first, but maybe the Unia’a already knew. He had been trying to get Henry to attack him first this whole time. The corner of Henry’s mouth quirked upward. As the referee came to the edge of the arena platform to blow the whistle, he glanced up at Zarin, who was watching Henry with a smirk. His eyes darted at Eveningstar; the tip of the lizardman’s tail had gradually turned to point at Zarin, an unconscious gesture as he prepared to move sharply in that particular direction. Henry doubted the Tyrellan knew that, as he seemed to think every non-elven being in that palace was beneath him.
Four whistles. Henry ran forward just as Ophelia and Eveningstar converged on Zarin. The elf held his ground, his saber held before him as he pointed it at Eveningstar, the closer of the two. Henry lashed out at Ophelia’s arm, forcing her attention onto him while Eveningstar’s hung-aria whirled at Zarin. Henry traded blows with the lizardwoman, wincing every time her cleaver met his blade. Crin were the strongest among sentient-kind, and after fighting several of them that day, along with his other competitors, his arms and wrists hated him. It was time to make this match end quickly.
As she laid down a blow, he slid his blade up along the cleaver and caught it in the crook of the blade and guard before giving a mighty twist. It didn’t disarm her as it would normally, but it threw her off balance and made her stumble to one side. Henry slashed a ribbon off her ankle, and then grabbed her tail.
“Sorry,” he grunted before turning his weight. She started dancing around in a circle, hissing and swearing as she tried to reach him. She finally dropped onto the floor, which yanked the tail from his grasp, but he jumped on her leg and cut the second ribbon off.
He paid for the maneuver as her tail smashed against his right side. Pain exploded from his shoulder, and he rolled away with a yell. Henry gasped breaths, trying to rotate his shoulder, but it had been dislocated. He switched the sword to the left hand as Ophelia got up, her red eyes burning into him. If they weren’t in the Tournament, he wouldn’t blame her for wanting to kill him for such an embarrassing display. Henry glanced at Zarin and Eveningstar, but didn’t have time to determine their ribbon count before he was sparring with Ophelia. She slashed ribbons from both his wrists before trying to trip him with her legs and tail.
As a Knight of Mal’ur, he had exceptional martial training, even when seriously injured, and his left hand fared well against Ophelia. However, she was so busy trying to trip him that her swordsmanship paid the price, and he slashed the ribbon from her sword hand before stomping on her toes. She gurgled and head-butted him, knocking him to the floor. His head whirled, bumped and bruised from a few fights of that day. His face was probably a mess. Ophelia cut a ribbon from an ankle before he lashed out with his legs and caught her sword arm between his knees.
“What — ” was all she managed before he twisted his body over the floor, throwing her down. He rolled the both of them a few times before yanking himself upright and cutting the ribbon on her off wrist.
“Good fight, Miss Wells!” Henry panted as he jumped to his feet and searched for Eveningstar and Zarin.
Zarin had left the platform. In his place was a black wraith that charged Henry with a blood-chilling roar. Let him win! Henry arced his sword up, catching the upper blade of the double-sword staff, and then kicked at Eveningstar with his right ankle, the ankle that still had a ribbon on it. Eveningstar caught the ankle under his hand and wrist and gave a savage yank that spun Henry through the air and slammed him against his bad shoulder. Air escaped him, replaced with mind-numbing pain.
The floor vibrated through his cheek as the spectators cheered. Henry turned onto his back with a grimace. Eveningstar raised the last golden ribbon, facing Sabra, and she stood and applauded before turning to her Knights. They soon rushed out of the arena, and as Henry was still struggling to his feet, the Knights ran to his side and helped him up.
“The shoulder, watch the shoulder!” he grunted.
“Sorry, sir,” the Hakaan Knight said.
“Sir, Queen Sabra has ordered you directly to your quarters,” said the human Knight on Henry’s right, who wrapped an arm around his side instead of under his shoulder.
“Then we mustn’t keep her waiting,” Henry whispered, brows wrinkling as he tried not to scream in agony.
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Excerpt from Book 3 of The Legend of Draconite: E'lsra ©2019 by Sarah Bailey. All rights reserved.
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