CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO #3
The second whip swept low in a wide arc, catching both his legs just behind the knees as I slammed as much power as I could into the blow. His feet flew out from under him as the icy water wrapped around his calves for the briefest instant before dissolving back to its liquid state.
The third tendril, meanwhile, coiled back like a loaded spring before launching forward with all the force I could muster.
It slammed into his chest with the impact of a battering ram, driving the air from his lungs in a sharp, pained gasp.
The blow sent him sprawling backward onto the sand, his arms windmilling desperately as he tried and failed to break his fall.
He hit the arena floor hard, sending up a small explosion of grit that clung to his sweat-dampened skin. His sword skittered across the sand in a wild arc, tumbling far out of reach before finally coming to rest against the wooden barrier that separated us from the cheering crowd.
Before he could recover, I drove my palm downward. Moisture surged from the earth, wrapping around his boots and flash-freezing into ice. Shackles formed up to his ankles, locking him in place.
"Release me!" he roared, his face darkening with rage. But I held firm. The duel wasn’t over until Mordred said it was.
Balan's fingers moved in desperate gestures, his lips forming the spell of whatever spectral conjuration he was attempting. In response, I sent a breath of icy chill that froze his words as soon as he said them, halting his magic before it could act.
He tried again. And again. Each attempt weaker than the last, but strangely, Mordred did not call me victor. I wasn't certain what he was waiting for because it was fairly obvious that I'd subdued the giant. But apparently, the trial still wasn't over.
Balan tried once more to conjure a blade, clearly not realizing that my mist had been more than cover—it had siphoned the arena’s moisture, starving his magic at the source.
As the truth dawned on him that he was now powerless, I raised both hands and summoned a sphere of water from the air.
It hovered for a beat—then slid over his head like a shimmering helm.
His distorted features gaped behind the liquid shell.
He could still breathe—barely—but every shallow breath reminded him who was in control.
I could close it, my expression told him. I won’t. But I could.
"Yield," I said, my voice calm and unwavering, wondering if perhaps Mordred needed to hear Balan say the words in order to call me the victor.
Already, those in the stands were chanting "Lioran" and clapping their hands, reiterating the fact that I had won. So, why wasn't Mordred calling the duel?
Balan's face flushed deeper, his eyes wild with fury and shame. He strained against the ice shackles holding him in place, his jaw clenched, veins rising on his neck.
"I refuse to submit to a commoner!" he spat, his words bubbling through the sphere.
I leaned in over him and whispered, "It looks like you have no fucking choice."
I was sick of these pompous and entitled bastards who thought their title and status made them better than everyone else.
With a guttural roar that reverberated through the arena like thunder, Balan summoned every ounce of his considerable strength into one explosive, desperate movement.
The muscles in his shoulders and arms bulged against his torn tunic as he strained against my magical restraints, veins standing out like cords beneath his flushed skin.
The water sphere around his head simply popped out of existence as the ice shackles, which had held him so securely mere moments before, suddenly gave way with a sharp, crystalline crack that split the air. They shattered in a spectacular explosion of frozen fragments.
Sharp shards flew like deadly glass projectiles in all directions, some spinning high into the air while others skittered along the ground with metallic scraping sounds.
The spectators in the front row—nobles who had been leaning forward to get a better view—ducked instinctively as the larger fragments struck the shimmering magical barriers that protected the stands, creating brief flashes of blue light where ice met enchantment.
"If I can’t beat you with magic," Balan growled, yanking a short blade from his belt, "then I’ll break you with my hands!"
And then he charged at me.
What came at me now was raw, unhinged fury—a man unwilling to accept defeat.
This should not have been allowed. The duel was about magical proficiency and physical prowess, not brawn against brawn.
So, why weren't Mordred or Arthur calling Balan's foul?
In fact, I could hear Percival calling out to Mordred and saying something similar.
But I couldn't focus on him long because Balan was nearly on me.
I sidestepped his charge, pivoting on my left foot while gesturing downward with my right hand. The arena floor beneath Balan's thundering boots transformed instantly into a slick sheet of ice, perfectly transparent and treacherously smooth.
His momentum betrayed him.
His eyes widened in the split second that he realized what I'd done, arms going out to his sides as his feet shot out from under him. He crashed down with a bone-jarring impact that echoed throughout the arena, his short blade skittering away across the ice.
Before he could recover, I closed my fists tightly.
Water from the surrounding air condensed and froze around his wrists and ankles, forming glasslike manacles that glittered in the sunlight.
The ice thickened with each passing second, securing him firmly to the ground, despite his furious struggles.
I approached him then with measured steps, my boots finding perfect traction on the same ice that had just felled him. With deliberate slowness, I placed the tip of my sword against his throat, applying just enough pressure so he could feel the cold steel against his skin.
His eyes met mine, rage giving way to bitter resignation.
"Admit defeat," I growled.
He glared at me.
"For God's sake, man!" Lancelot yelled from where he stood beside Arthur. "You've been bested!"
Balan glared at me.
"Don't make this any worse for yourself," I whispered.
"I…" Balan began, glaring at me. "Submit."
"The duel is concluded!" Mordred's voice rang out across the suddenly silent arena as I breathed an inward sigh of relief. "Sir Lioran advances!"
The final verdict echoed through Camelot's Grand Arena as I stepped away from the massive man. He still lay disarmed and immobilized beneath me, mainly because I was nervous he might attack me the second I released him.
Silence hung over the arena for a breathless moment before those in the stands erupted into thunderous applause.
The assembled nobility of Logres—having witnessed the complete dismantling of one of the realm's most feared warriors—responded with astonishment followed by approval.
Even those who had wagered against the relatively unknown borderlands knight seemed impressed by this display of tactical ability.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Arthur leaning forward on his throne, his expression one of interest. He studied me as someone might a bizarre and foreign insect. From the look on his face, I wasn't sure what he was thinking—whether he was pleased that I'd defeated Balan or not.
My gaze moved to Lancelot, who simply nodded at me as though to say, "Good job." Then he turned to whisper something to Arthur, who nodded in turn. Both of them raised their hands and applauded, along with the others in the stands.
Now that I had given Balan enough time to compose himself and process his defeat, I carefully released the ice manacles that had bound his wrists and ankles.
The crystalline restraints dissolved with a soft hiss, water pooling briefly in the sand before evaporating under the arena's heat.
I extended my hand toward him—the gesture that protocol and knightly courtesy demanded after any formal combat—but even as I made the offer, I could see the anger playing out across his weathered features.
His pride, already battered by such a public and thorough defeat, recoiled from accepting assistance from the opponent who had humiliated him.
Balan's jaw worked silently, muscles twitching as he fought against whatever words wanted to spill forth.
His dark eyes refused to meet mine, instead fixing on some point beyond my shoulder as though I had become invisible the moment his sword left his hand.
The rage still simmered beneath the surface of his forced composure—I could see it in the tight set of his shoulders, the way his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, and the rapid rise and fall of his chest as he struggled to master himself.
The crowd's thunderous cheers and applause continued to rain down around us, a constant reminder of his failure and my unexpected triumph, each voice adding salt to the wound of his honor.
"Well fought," I said.
Balan shoved himself upright with a grunt. "You fight like a woman," he spat. "With tricks, not honor."
The irony nearly drew a smile from me. Instead, I kept my composure. "Victory is victory, Sir Balan. The outcome speaks for itself."
As I turned from the arena, I caught Kay watching me from the sidelines—his expression unreadable, his gaze sharp as a blade. There was calculation in his stare, something too focused to ignore. I didn’t slow my steps, but a flicker of unease lingered within me all the same.
The roar of the crowd followed me back to the waiting area, where Percival stood grinning like a boy at his first tournament.
"Magnificent!" he said, clapping my shoulder, looking like he was so thrilled he might burst into tears. "The way you turned Balan's own magic against him—I’ve never seen water used so cleanly. You made it look effortless."