Fletcher was surprised to see the beardless chin of a female dwarf, her eyes as green as Othello’s, with a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her button nose. She wore no veil as other dwarven females did, but he recognised the spiked bangle in her hand, a torq, the female equivalent of the dwarf male’s tomahawk.
‘Fletcher, down here,’ Othello shouted, and Fletcher saw him waving, a few steps down.
Fletcher made his way to Othello’s side and took a seat, never taking his eyes off the two fighters as Didric closed in once again, spitting words under his breath. Fletcher could not hear what they were, but he could tell from the way the girl’s eyes widened that they were offensive.
‘What’s her name again?’ Fletcher asked, as the girl parried another blow with her torq and swept her seax at Didric’s legs, forcing him to leap awkwardly over her blade.
‘Her name is Cress. Should have won this contest already – Didric wasn’t trained to fence a dual-wielding fighter. See his nose? She got him in the face with her torq, but Rook deemed it a non-killing blow. Typical.’ Othello pointed at the black-clad judge in the corner, his eyes glittering with anger as Cress’s seax slit the cloth of Didric’s uniform at the neck, the flesh beneath untouched thanks to the barrier spell.
‘Come on,’ Othello bellowed, his voice lost in the crowd as they booed Didric’s poor defence. ‘A neck blow is fatal!’
Rook shook his head, pursing his lips. Despite the obvious support for Didric from the almost entirely human crowd, several booed his decision. Noticing the lack of dwarves present, Fletcher nudged Othello.
‘Where’s Atilla? In the infirmary?’
‘No,’ Othello replied. ‘He and Cress … let’s just say they don’t get on. After he lost to Didric he stormed out.’
Below, Cress swept at Didric’s stomach, forcing him to hunch over to avoid it. As he did so, her torq came thrumming through the air, leaving spiked indents in his face and producing a resounding crack that Fletcher heard even over the screams from the crowd. Didric dropped like a stone, spread-eagled on the floor. Even so, Rook gave it a full ten seconds before finally nodding his head, to a smattering of applause from those around him.
‘Cress wins the tournament!’ he said, clapping twice before letting his hands drop to his side. He leaped into the arena as Didric regained consciousness, and helped the woozy boy to his feet. Cress stood proudly, wiping her brow, seemingly unconcerned by the lack of celebration around her.
Clearly, the attacks from the Anvils had done their work. The anti-dwarven sentiment seemed worse than when Fletcher had first arrived at Vocans. Most of the crowd were already dispersing, disappointed that their champion had lost the battle. Othello shook his head as the room began to empty. It was a poor celebration of a well-earned victory.
‘Watch out – the twins are here,’ Othello whispered.
Tarquin and Isadora were climbing the stairs ahead of them with a sweaty Didric in tow. The trio stopped a few steps below, staring Fletcher and Othello down.
‘What a touching family reunion,’ Didric mocked, earning himself a punch on the arm from Tarquin. He caught the hateful look Fletcher gave him, and they stared each other down. It was all Fletcher could do to stop himself from shoving Didric back down the stairs, but Othello grasped his wrist to steady him.
Isadora rolled her eyes and clicked her fingers to get Fletcher’s attention.
‘Dearest cousin, it has been far too long.’ She smiled prettily and gave Fletcher an exaggerated curtsy. ‘Why, it’s been over a year, has it not? What have you been doing all this time?’
‘You’re no family of mine,’ Fletcher spat, the memory of his long incarceration, and those behind it, still fresh in his mind.
‘I couldn’t agree more,’ Tarquin replied, a vicious sneer on his face. ‘Once a commoner, always a commoner. As long as the inheritance from Aunt Alice is still ours, I don’t care what you call yourself.’
‘You can keep your blood money,’ Fletcher said. ‘Just stay the hell away from me.’
‘Gladly,’ Isadora said, the pretty smile gone from her face. She lifted her nose in the air and sniffed pointedly.
‘Come on,’ she smirked, sauntering away. ‘It stinks of dwarf here anyway.’
Othello reddened with anger, and Fletcher winced as the dwarf tightened his grip on Fletcher’s wrist to stop himself from lashing out.
‘Nice haircut by the way,’ Tarquin called over his shoulder. ‘You must tell me where you had it done.’
‘That’s it …’ Othello growled, leaping to his feet. Fletcher followed suit, but the trio were gone and instead they found themselves staring at a startled Rory and Genevieve.
‘Hello,’ Fletcher said, unsure of himself. The three had not parted on the best of terms – he had almost killed Rory’s Mite in the Tournament, after all.
‘Hello. I see you got out then,’ Rory said awkwardly.
‘That’s right,’ Fletcher replied, scratching his neck.
‘Good … good,’ Rory said, avoiding Fletcher’s gaze. ‘I’m glad.’
They stood there in an awkward silence, until Genevieve stepped forward with a fixed smile.