I nudge Cissy’s arm. “There are five major houses, so the other tents must be the lesser ones.”
She smiles. “You’ve done some research.”
“Mom gave me some books.”
We approach the tournament green. It’s now surrounded by more and larger seating pavilions. A network of wooden walkways keeps everyone from sloshing through the mud. The thrax really went all-out this time.
With all the extra crowds and hassle, Cissy and I are really late. The pavilions are packed; there’s no chance to get a seat. We decide to stand by the tall wooden fence that surrounds the tournament green.
I settle into a spot, set my elbows atop the fence and scan the fighting field. The Earl of Acca stands in the center, his crossbow held high. He’s bashing it into a ghoul. My breath catches.
I tap Cissy’s shoulder. “I know that ghoul. It’s XP-22. I see him at Arena matches.”
Her pretty mouth sags into a frown. “Why’s the Earl fighting a ghoul?”
“I’m forced to fight in the Arena. It’s a job for XP-22. They must have paid him to appear.” I watch the Earl hammer away at XP-22 as he tries to run away. Anger careens up my spine. “This isn’t right. Even you could kick XP-22’s butt. And he clearly isn’t attacking the Earl.”
“Shh, Myla. It’s not our place to judge.”
“Fine.” I grit my teeth and look away. The crowd breaks out into wild applause. “Is it over?”
“Yes.”
“Is the ghoul dead?”
Cissy sucks in a breath. “Oh, yeah.”
The Earl of Acca struts off the field. Some thrax lackeys clear off the body. My eyes flare red with rage and horror. XP-22 didn’t deserve to end his afterlife that way.
Across the tournament green, the wooden fence swings open. A dragon creeps onto the field of battle. Its body is large as a cow, with a tail twice as long. It has stubby wings, red eyes, a long thin snout, and black scales that glitter purple in the light. It’s a shadow dragon, a rare demon that’s incredibly hard to kill.
I let out a low whistle. I feel sorry for whatever sucker goes after that thing.
The sucker in question steps onto the field of battle: Lincoln. He wears black body armor with the Rixa crest, his baculum broadsword gripped in one hand. He marches toward the dragon, tossing his blade from hand to hand, eyeing up his opponent.
The dragon rears up on his haunches, arcs his head toward the sky and spits out a stream of red fire. With deliberate steps, Lincoln closes in on the beast’s mouth. Raising his baculum high above his head, he blocks the dragon’s stream of fire with his sword. A shower of red-hot sparks cloud the air. The dragon gags, shakes its head, and hops backwards. Its neck becomes level with the tournament green.
Lincoln crouches into a body roll and slides under the beast’s belly, reappearing by the beast’s tail.
My eyebrows pop up. That’s a pretty neat move.
Baculum sword in hand, the Prince scales the dragon’s back, the beast howling and flailing beneath him. I watch the play of muscle on Lincoln’s chest and legs as he climbs up the dragon’s body. My skin flushes with desire and heat. Damn, that’s one gorgeous man, even if he is a creep sometimes.
Cissy touches my shoulder. “Are you okay, Myla?”
“What do you mean?”
She points to the wooden fence. I’ve gripped it so hard, there’s now a crack in the wood. I loosen my grip and shrug. “Yeah, I’m fine. That’s just a really cool demon.”
“You and demons.” Cissy sniffs. “Well, be careful with that fence. It doesn’t look too sturdy.”
“Sure.” My gaze sweeps the crowd. Queen Octavia sits in the front row of the largest pavilion, her mismatched eyes fixed on me. I shiver and return my focus to the fighting grounds. The Prince still rides the dragon’s back as the beast twists and rears.
“Nat!” Lincoln waves to a sturdy thrax at the sidelines. “Toss me a muzzle!”
The man throws at Lincoln what looks like a thick leather net. The Prince slips it over the dragon’s mouth and pulls on the attached leash. The animal quiets. Shaking his head from side to side, Lincoln slides off the dragon’s back, the fire-sword still firmly in his grip.
A cry rises up from the pavilions. “Kill! Kill!”
Lincoln steps around the dragon, checking its jaw and hind legs. He raises one hand; the crowd goes quiet. “Nat, come here!”
The barrel-chested man jogs onto the tournament green. Sturdy and fit, he wears black body armor like Lincoln’s.
The Prince nods his head to the dragon. “Nat, how old do you say this beast is?”
Squinting, I take a closer look at the dragon’s body as well. He’s right. That dragon’s way too young for tournament fighting. No true warrior takes on anything but a fully-grown opponent who’s in attack mode. A lesson the Earl of Acca should learn, pronto. I tilt my head to one side. It takes a lot of control to stop in the middle of a battle. I almost hate to admit it, but I’m impressed.