Chapter 30 Svenn #2
She tries to step back and create space. But Finnbheara follows. His longer legs eat up the ground and his superior reach keeps her pinned.
He swings again. A massive overhead strike that would cleave her in half if it connected. Rhianelle brings her sword up horizontally above her head.
She locks it and her sword shines. The golden blade erupts with light, the Starfall steel responding to the impact and absorbing the force. Finnbheara’s blade slides off harmlessly to the side. His eyes widen just slightly with surprise.
Beside me, Hrolf makes a sound. It’s a pleased grunt, and he beams with pride.
“Starfall steel,” he mutters. “Finest in the world. No enchanted fae blade can match it.”
But even as he speaks, I see the truth.
The sword is magnificent, a product of superior craftsmanship and the best weapon Rhianelle could possibly have. But a weapon is only as good as its wielder. Rhianelle is losing. She is not a close combat fighter.
Finnbheara realizes it too. I see it in the way his initial surprise fades.
He adjusts his strategy and stops trying to overpower her with single massive strikes.
Instead, he switches to speed and precision, trying to wear her down.
His blade becomes a serpent, striking from every angle and testing her defenses.
Rhianelle meets him blow for blow. Her sword work is better than I expected. Siofra trained her well, but she’s small. So small compared to him and exhausted. Every parry costs her. Every block drives her backward.
Rhianelle sees an opening and tries to counter. She thrusts forward. Finnbheara sidesteps easily. His blade comes around and slams into her armored shoulder.
The silver plate holds. My work holds. But the impact drives her to one knee.
“Get up,” I whisper desperately. “Please, get up.”
She scrambles back to her feet, breathing hard now. Finnbheara presses relentlessly. Rhianelle blocks and parries, but she’s giving ground, retreating toward… the rocks.
Large boulders are scattered around the ravine floor, natural formations that provide cover.
Rhianelle is running for them. She breaks away from Finnbheara’s assault and sprints.
Her armor clanks and her breath comes in ragged gasps.
She reaches the nearest boulder, placing it between herself and the fae prince.
Just long enough for her to catch her breath.
Laughter erupts from the other side of the ravine, loud, mocking, and cruel.
“Look at her run!” someone shouts.
“Coward!” another calls.
“The Elven Queen fights like a rat!” a dwarf shouts.
More laughter. It spreads like a disease.
I look at our side. They’re not laughing.
They’re watching their small, exhausted queen trying desperately to survive against an opponent who outclasses her in every way.
Some can’t bear to watch. Others stare with something like pity. The look in their eyes makes it seem as though they are witnessing her funeral instead of her fight.
Finnbheara doesn’t chase immediately. He walks casually, taking his time.
“You can’t hide forever, little queen,” he calls out, his voice carrying across the ravine. “The circle isn’t that big. There’s nowhere to run.”
Rhianelle doesn’t answer him. She’s pressed against the boulder, sword raised, trying to control her breathing. Her hands are shaking again. I can see it from here.
Finnbheara rounds the boulder. Rhianelle bursts from cover, swinging. A desperate attempt to catch him off guard. It almost works, but Finnbheara is too fast and experienced. He blocks, then sweeps his blade low, aiming for her legs. Rhianelle jumps back and barely avoids being hamstrung.
They’re fighting again. Rhianelle is fast too. She must have managed to borrow some speed from a quick summoning. Her golden blade meets his enchanted steel again and again. She matches him blow for blow. The sound echoes through the ravine like a dark song.
For a moment, it almost looks even. But then Finnbheara adjusts and puts more weight behind his strikes.
His blade slams into hers with overwhelming force.
The Starfall steel holds, but the impact drives Rhianelle backward and lifts her off her feet.
His strike sends her flying and she hits the ground hard.
Her sword skitters from her grip, landing a few feet away.
“No!” I scream.
Rhianelle tries to get up and crawl toward her weapon. Her hand reaches out, fingers grasping—
But she’s too slow.
Finnbheara is already standing over her.
Laughter erupts again, louder and more vicious this time. The fae side is roaring with it. They’re cheering and celebrating.
“Look at her crawl!”
“She’s like a worm!”
“This is their queen?”
The spectacle has become a cruel humiliation. Finnbheara steps forward. He plants his boot on Rhianelle’s cape and pins her in place. She struggles and pulls, trying to free herself. But the weight holds her.
“It’s over, little queen,” Finnbheara says. His voice isn’t cruel. “You fought bravely. Better than I expected. But this was always how it would end.”
He lifts his other foot and brings it down on her shin. The sound of breaking bone echoes through the ravine.
Crack.
Rhianelle screams. A sound of pure agony tears through the air. Through my chest. Through my soul. Shadow wings erupt from my back. My body launches toward the circle.
“Svenn, no!” Hrolf’s hand closes around my arm. Shade grabs the other. Bas appears in front of me, blocking my path.
“You promised you wouldn’t interfere,” Bas says urgently.
“He broke her leg!” I roar. “He’s killing her! I have to—”
“You promised her, Arescaine,” Bas repeats gently. “I’ve read the rules of the fae Oryth trial.”
I wrench against Hrolf and Shade, nearly dragging them both forward. Bas chooses this moment to lecture me about ancient fae law while Rhianelle lies screaming on the ground.
“This is not the time for one of your clever explanations,” I snarl. “She is suffering. Move.”
Bas doesn’t flinch. He plants both hands against my chest and holds my gaze.
“If you cross that line, the circle’s magic will consider it outside assistance.
The fight will be forfeited. Aelfheim will lose.
She will die as the ash circle claims her life and everything she’s fighting for will be for nothing. ”
I know he’s right. But I can still hear her screaming. I see her on the ground, hurt and broken.
“Please,” I beg. “Please, I can’t just watch—”
“You have to,” Rainer says grimly. “For her. You have to.”
His voice is steady but the hand at his side is clenched so tightly that blood runs from where his nails have cut into his palm.
Rainer wants to reach her too. I see it in the rigid set of his shoulders and the helpless fury in his eyes. But like me, he can do nothing except stand here and watch her suffer.
In the circle, Finnbheara raises his sword. The blade gleams in the morning light. He positions it over the vulnerable gap between the armor plates on Rhianelle’s back.
One thrust. That’s all it would take. One thrust and this is over.
“I’m sorry,” Finnbheara says, and he sounds like he means it. “Truly. You were braver than I gave you credit for.”
He pulls back, preparing to strike.
“Wait!” Landon’s voice cuts through everything.
Finnbheara pauses and looks up at his friend standing at the edge of the circle.
“What?” he asks.
“The Duel of Oryth has specific rules,” Landon says quickly. “It has not been fulfilled.”
“We have followed the rules,” Finnbheara says slowly. “What do you mean?”
“The trial dictates that each combatant must bring forth every power, weapon, and bond that is an extension of themselves,” Landon continues. His gaze moves toward the sky. “You are one of the Night Herons. Call upon your wyvern.”
Finnbheara stares at him. “What?”
“You must call Sanguisyl,” Landon says firmly. “The fight isn’t just between warriors. It’s between bonded pairs. That’s the rule and law.”
Finnbheara lowers his sword slightly and looks down at Rhianelle. Then his gaze rises to Landon. “Are you serious? Look at her. She’s finished and defeated. You want me to bring my wyvern into this?”
“Rules are rules,” Landon says simply.
That bastard Landon, Coinneach hisses. What is he thinking?
Finnbheara shakes his head. “This is pointless.”
Laughter ripples through the fae side again. They think this is hilarious.
“That’s overkill.” A dwarf lord guffaws so hard he nearly falls from his chair. “This is mercy! Finnbheara is giving her a quick death!”
“I am the Herald. I witness this fight. And I say, the Duel of Oryth requires both combatants to call their wyverns,” Landon insists, his expression giving nothing away. “You must call Sanguisyl, King Finnbheara. That is the law.”
“She’s an elf.” I hear King Mavren mutter as he covers his face with one hand. “Elves don’t have wyverns. Just end it quickly. Don’t let the girl suffer.”
Ragnar gives a grim nod in agreement.
But the fae spectators keep cheering and laughing.
Finnbheara looks at them. “Very well.”
He sheathes his sword and raises his hand to whistle.
A terrible roar splits the sky. The red wyvern descends from above, where he’d been circling.
Sanguisyl lands and enters the arena, the ground shaking with his weight.
A mountain of scales, muscle, and primal fury.
His breath steams in the cool morning air. Each exhale could incinerate a person.
Finnbheara walks toward his bonded companion and places a hand on the massive snout.
“Gently, old friend,” he murmurs. “You are here only to fulfill the condition. You will not need to fight.”
The fae spectators begin to chant.
“Burn her! Burn her!”
Others take up a different cry.
“Eat the queen! Eat the queen!”
The words spread through the crowd until the ravine shakes with thousands of voices demanding Rhianelle’s death. Sanguisyl releases a low rumble, smoke curling between his teeth.
Finnbheara looks toward Landon. “Are you satisfied now?”
“Yes,” Landon replies.
He turns back to Rhianelle. She’s still on the ground with her broken leg.