Chapter Twenty A Show of Strength #2
Hamelin saw him. Faltered once more, his momentum stalling. The wave beneath him went still. The stone oar shifted in the water—
A new wave came, harsher and quicker than the others. It crashed against the gargoyle. His wing fell beneath the water, arms and legs churning as the wave tossed him.
Two seconds later, Hamelin stepped onto the shore and was named the winner. His mother rushed out to join him, and together they raised the Ardent Oarsman’s oar, folk of the Peaks lifting their own hands in accordance.
“Only the oar…” Hamelin called, out of breath. He searched for me in the crowd and grinned. “Only vigor… can Divine.”
The gargoyle stomped out of the water just as the other swimmers reached the shore. I thought he might cry for the injustice of it all, but he didn’t. He didn’t even pout. He was looking at Hamelin with the same ornery scowl he’d once tendered the abbess. Like he thought him quite the bitch.
The next feat had already been prepared. Knights moved through the crowd, ushering folk away from twelve giant pieces of mountain rock that had been laid out. One by one, the participants came forth, stepped up to a rock, and were handed an iron spike.
The gargoyle squared off with the stone closest to us, and Hamelin the one next over.
“The rules are simple,” Avice called. “The first man or woman who breaks their rock in half wins.”
Once more, Benji raised the purple flag. Once more, heart in my throat, I watched it fall.
The noise was cataclysmic. Arms swung, hammers hit spikes, and iron buried itself in stone.
Bang, bang, bang. His stone oar couldn’t help him this time—Hamelin was throwing all his might into his hammer.
Even I could see how strong he was, how he never missed his mark, how the spike drove deeper, deeper into his rock.
“I say, Bartholomew.” The gargoyle was shouting over the clamor. “What an extraordinary arm you have. A shame the rest of you is not half as impressive.”
“Oh, for the love of—Bartholomew!” I hollered. “Don’t just stand there—hit the damn thing!”
He looked back at me, puzzlement on his face.
Rory was trembling to hold still and say nothing. Maude was practically jumping out of her skin. “The iron spike,” she shouted, swinging her arm, mimicking a hammer strike. “Hit it!”
Avice shot her a chilly gaze. “Strange that your own bride and champion should side with a sprite, King Castor.”
“Ignore them.” Benji’s voice was missing a vital piece of thread. “Hit it, Hamelin!”
The gargoyle looked down at the pike for the first time. He leaned down. Sniffed it. Meanwhile, Hamelin and a few of the other participants had already chipped away several bits of their rocks. Some had even begun to sprout long cracks.
“Come on, Bartholomew.” I began to clap. “Hit it.”
It was my applause, I think, that did it. Fingers trilling on the handle of Rory’s hammer, the gargoyle closed one eye and trained the other on the spike. With painfully slow precision, he lifted his hammer, raising it until it was level with the crown of his head. Giggled to himself.
And swung.
Boom.
I thought it might be another earthquake—another peak, crumbling. I hadn’t heard a sound that loud and clear and violent since Aisling Cathedral had fallen. Every head turned, every mouth fell—even Avice’s.
The gargoyle’s rock had broken in two, the split so clean there was hardly any dust, save the haze of limestone that bloomed off his back.
I threw my head back and cheered.
There was one feat left.
Avice gave her son a pointed look and raised her voice. “A valiant show of strength from all. Winners, hold out your nets.”
Hamelin retrieved his from his belt, and the gargoyle took his from his neck.
“Take one half of the rock that was split,” Avice called. “Place it in your net.”
They did as they were told, Hamelin grunting as he lifted his half of the rock, the gargoyle humming.
“Stand before us on the shore,” Avice instructed.
The crowd surged forward as if dragged on a hook.
“Our nets are the strongest in all of Traum.” Avice’s voice echoed over the water. “They do not fray, do not tear, even when confronted by immeasurable weight. That is how we of the Peaks are. We do not deteriorate, even when hardship proves an impossible burden to carry.”
She nodded to Hamelin and the gargoyle. “With one hand, lift your net, and the rock within. Prove the merit of your strength. He”—her mouth turned at the gargoyle—“or it who holds their net the longest is the winner and shall be named champion, the strongest in all of Traum.”
Hamelin fisted the net in his right hand, and so did the gargoyle. It was the arm that had the fewest cracks.
Once more, Benji stepped forward. Gone was the jovial expression he’d worn at the joust, the melee. I knew his face well enough. He was looking at the gargoyle, then at Hamelin—and losing faith that his knight could win.
The flag dropped, and the nets were lifted.
Rory and Maude and I leaned forward, our breaths coming sharp and fast. “Come on, Bartholomew,” Maude said.
He was holding the net—and the granite within it, high. It swung idly beside him and did not quiver, his hold steady and sure. Hamelin’s was, too. But as the minutes passed, Hamelin’s cheeks grew red—he was hissing out breaths and barely taking any in. Soon, his arm began to quiver.