Chapter Twenty A Show of Strength #3
The gargoyle’s did not. He was a creature of the tor—stout and strong as stone. He did not falter, did not shake, did not do anything but look pleasantly forward and hum.
But even that sent tiny flecks of limestone flying from his back.
“Come on, Hamelin,” Samuel shouted. A few other knights joined in, cheering him. “Do not diminish.”
But the king’s favorite wasn’t just shaking in the arm anymore. His entire body was trembling. His eyes narrowed and he bared his teeth. The signs were clear—ten minutes of holding the rock had doomed him to drop it.
Hamelin’s nostrils flared, sweat falling down his face.
He looked at his mother, then at the gargoyle, loathing coating his gaze.
Still managing to hold on to the net, he dropped his other hand, fumbling for the Ardent Oarsman’s oar.
When it came loose, he dropped it, blade down, into the shallow water behind him.
A wave rose from the heart of the basin, rushed forward, then crashed into the gargoyle’s back.
“He’s a cheat,” I shouted. “He can’t do that!”
Benji and Avice leaned forward, saying nothing, and Hamelin—he was stirring the Ardent Oarsman’s oar again.
Another wave came, faster than the one before.
When it slammed against the gargoyle, I heard him whimper, his head bent low against the assault of water.
Still, he did not lose his footing or drop his net.
Hamelin tried again—another brutal wave. Again, he failed to fell the gargoyle, who stood unwavering, stronger than the strongest man in the Fervent Peaks.
Hamelin’s net began to slip. He shouted through his teeth, his eyes wide and bloodshot, and I should have seen it coming—should have known desperate men do grievous things, because in his last effort to win the feats of strength, Hamelin did not drop the Ardent Oarsman’s oar into the water.
He slammed it into the gargoyle’s back instead.
There was a burst of limestone—a sharp, agonizing cry.
I screamed.
Hamelin raised the oar to strike him again. The gargoyle, still holding his net, turned, catching the oar in his free hand. Cracks ripped up his arm, but the gargoyle did not waver. He simply bared his fangs, let out a thunderous growl that washed the fervor from Hamelin’s face—
And snapped the Ardent Oarsman’s oar in half.
Benji gasped like it had been his own spine to break.
Avice went rigid and Hamelin—Hamelin was looking at the pieces of the broken oar like he could not fathom a world in which a creature as powerless as a sprite might evince more vigor than him.
Eyes wide, jaw loose, Hamelin Fischer dropped his net, his rock slamming against the shore, signaling the end of the feat.
The gargoyle had won.
But then Hamelin reached for the hammer on his belt. Looked at the gargoyle as all knights look upon sprites—a creature only worthy when dead. He raised his hammer.
I was already running.
Before Hamelin’s weapon could meet its mark, my shoulder caught his middle, knocking him off his feet and away from the gargoyle, dropping both of us into the shallow waters of the basin.
I landed on top, leveled a fist, and hit Hamelin so hard across the jaw I heard a snap.
He shouted, bucking and swiping at me, but I was a weight too great for him to dislodge—I hit him again and again, blood coating my knuckles.
Somewhere in the distance, the king and Avice Fischer were shouting.
Hamelin hollered. Kicked and hit and shoved me.
His face was bleeding, his eyes wide, his mouth turned by unmistakable revulsion.
And I knew what I’d known since the moment we’d met—he didn’t care for me, didn’t desire me—didn’t wish to wed or even fuck me.
All a man like Hamelin Fischer wanted was to be stronger than everyone around him.
But I hadn’t given him anything—I wouldn’t give him that, either.
I hit him once more over the face, then pressed him into the shallows of the basin, the crystalline waters going a murky brown as they sopped up his blood.
Hamelin choked. Reached up. Caught my throat. The king was still calling, frenzied upon the shore. Hamelin’s fingers anchored themselves into the flesh of my neck, and he threw me down into the basin beside him. I breathed chill water into my lungs.
Hamelin had gotten to his knees. Blood on his teeth, jaw hanging unnaturally, he peered down at me like he still might prove himself the strongest man in all of Traum. He raised his hammer over my head. I heard Rory shout my name. Hamelin pulled back. Swung his hammer—
A thundering sound echoed through the peaks. Thousands of shards flew, hitting my face, some hard and cold, others hot and viscous. When I looked back, Maude and Rory were holding the gargoyle, chunks of limestone all around him—but his net, and the granite within, were still held high.
Next to them, the king was leaning forward, eyes wide and glassy, the Artful Brigand’s coin no longer in his hand. He’d thrown it, saving me from Hamelin’s clinching blow, obliterating the hammer in his knight’s hand.
And taking half of Hamelin Fischer’s head along with it.