Chapter Four Come One, Come All #3
A hand found my throat. It was Rothspar, his gauntlets scraping against my coif.
Seething, spitting blood, capillaries bursting in his eyes, he cursed me.
“Fucking foundling churl. Heretic.” He struck me over the jaw, dislodging my helmet, then reached for my right ear, his blunt fingers fumbling for the gold bands.
“Always hated these things,” he managed, grunting.
He caught the largest band in his finger, gave it a brutal tug—
I yanked my helmet off and slammed it into his face.
He let go of my ear and crumpled in a heap into the dirt. I crawled over him, hissing out breaths, bleeding from the ear, loathing and vigor curling in my gut. Rothspar blinked up at me—
And went still.
His mouth was half-open, blood spraying from his bottom lip as he gasped. “Aisling’s waters.”
I saw it then, reflected in his armor. The thing I’d hoped to see in a silver spoon.
My reflection. I had black hair. Skin lit by a vehement flush. A prominent nose and three gold, bloody bands in my right ear. And my eyes—
My eyes were devoid of pupil. Of iris. Lifeless and pale as limestone.
Rothspar stared up at me, muttering what sounded like a prayer. We were all still on the ground, knights and the gargoyle and Maude, all of us tangling in violence, locked in an iron knot.
Until the earth began to shake.
Dirt plumed, and leaves flew. There was a long, aching groan, and when I turned, three birch trees descended upon us.
No—not birch trees.
Sprites.
The birke moved with shocking speed, branch-like limbs cutting through the air, spurring the breeze into a gale.
They rushed forward, crashing upon us, taking several knights in their clutches.
I rolled, then caught Maude with one hand and the gargoyle with the other, dragging them with me.
Above, the birke had opened their mouths, those terrifying voids full of eyes. They let out low, howling groans—
And each stuffed a knight into its mouth. I heard barking screams, sickening crunches of bone, the wet slosh of flesh, of blood. Then, nothing. “Holy shit.”
The knights recoiled, Maude and I forgotten, their gazes lifted to the looming sprites.
The birke swung their limbs, splintering both men and trees in the grove.
Maude and the gargoyle and I ran, dodging branches, weaving wildly between trees.
One by one, the birke cut the knights down, then dragged them into their mouths, where the knights screamed, snapped, then went silent.
When the last, Rothspar, tried to run, screaming as he made his way through the grove, the birke gave chase.
For a moment it seemed he might get away, but then Victor and Fig popped out from behind a tree, knocked him onto the ground, and Rothspar ended just as the others had: food for the sprites.
It was sickening. I’d never felt so alive.
“Pith, Rory.” Maude pulled my arm. “Run.”
We fled like we had from the tor—urgent and unbridled. When the grove thinned and the trees were fewer and not so many thorny brambles caught my ankles, a glen appeared, parsed by a long gravel drive. At the end of it, Petula Hall stood tall and wide and proud.
Maude limped toward the house, the chainmail along her neck bloody, and ripped a purple banner off the door. “At least we still have the element of surprise.”
“And you live here,” I said, hands on my knees, panting. “In the heart of all this danger.”
“There are worse things in the Stonewater Kingdom than birke.”
I splat blood onto gravel. “Not exactly an enticement to see more of it.”
“But you will. Victor, get the forge up and running.” Maude was breathing fast, her hair wild, her green eyes bright. “We’ve got to get back to Coulson Faire. I’ve found our way in. The story may begin and end upon the tor, but perhaps it changes—”
Maude reached for the satchel on her belt, extracting the wrinkled sheet of parchment from before, then slapping it onto my breastplate. “In the arena.”
The gargoyle began to clap, dust pluming off his back. “Huzzah! Another whirlwind adventure!”
I peeled the parchment off my armor and read.
“‘You are hereby notified of a pilgrimage, beginning on the third week of autumn. The king and his knighthood shall journey into the hamlets…’” I skimmed ahead, a cold prickle climbing my neck.
“‘You, of my esteemed noble families, shall host a tournament event in accordance with the tenets of love, faith, and war. Participants need not be of noble birth; all those able and willing to put forth a fee of ten gold coins may compete. A champion shall be named in each hamlet and shall receive the sum of the collected fees, a Divination, and an honorary place among the knighthood for the continuation of the tournament. Come one, come all, and celebrate—’”
My body seized. “‘And celebrate the marriage between King Benedict Castor the Third and his bride, the last Diviner of Aisling Cathedral.’”
Maude took the gargoyle’s hand. Looked me in my stone eyes. Grinned. “We’re fighting in a tournament, boys.”