The courtyard was wide and walled, large enough that I reckoned a hundred soldiers could drill upon it at once.
Yet, despite the space, it felt strangely cramped now. Twelve knights, armored head to toe and brandishing greatswords, had formed a circle around Clifford. He stood unarmed and unarmored in their midst, looking for all the world like a lamb cornered by wolves.
High above, the green banners of the Marquis’ house fluttered with loud snaps in the breeze, echoing against the stone. From the towers and walls came hushed murmurs, dozens of soldiers leaning over the parapets to watch. Below, a thinner ring of spectators pressed close, men-at-arms and retainers jostling for a view. The whole company’s eyes were fixed upon Clifford.
It was not me on trial, yet still I could hear the hammering of my own heart.
Strangely, Clifford looked more composed now, standing in the circle of steel, than he had earlier when he faced only the Marquis. His expression was almost calm.
"This young man," the Marquis finally spoke, his deep voice carrying across the court as a servant poured dark wine into his cup, "is the son of a Castorian lord. And he has chosen to prove that—" he raised the cup slightly, "—not with papers or patents, but with magic. A brave thing. A respectable thing."
He sipped before continuing.
"And since we respect him," he said with an edge to his tone, "I expect you not to go easy on him. Stop short of killing each other, but nothing more. There is no shame in yielding." His lips curled faintly, and I was not entirely certain there wasn’t sarcasm buried in his words.
Then he raised his cup high and barked, "Now... boys, have at it!"
The crowd erupted in a roar. I had never stood in the middle of such rowdiness before. Some men hammered on their shields, a pounding like war drums. Others spat insults so crude I could scarcely believe they were meant for a noble’s son. It was country entertainment at its finest.
The knights did not hesitate. In a flash they surged forward, moving as one.
The first strikes were spells—minor ones, the sort common to lesser houses. Nothing meant to kill, but distractions, flashes of light, sudden shoves of wind, irritations designed to break focus. No different, really, than flinging sand in a man’s eyes.
Clifford’s lips worked furiously as he muttered his own chant.
Despite their heavy mail and plate, the knights closed the distance with frightening speed. Blades arced down from every angle. Magic lashed from all sides. I cringed in anticipation, certain he would be cut down.
But then the ground trembled.
A pillar of stone burst upward beneath Clifford’s feet, hoisting him high into the air. Steel rang futilely against rock, sparks leaping from blades. The lesser spells splashed harmlessly away.
He wasted no breath. Clifford dove from his perch with stone surging up his arms, fists becoming rocky mauls.
The first knight to look up was far too slow. Clifford’s right fist crashed against his helm with a clang that drew groans from the crowd, and the man crumpled into unconsciousness before he hit the ground.
Another knight swung to intercept, but Clifford caught the blade in his stony left hand and answered with his right. His punch struck like a thunderbolt, the knight jerking backward before collapsing in a heap.
A third came from behind, blade raised high in a killing arc. Yet another wall of rock surged up at Clifford’s back, intercepting the blow with a ringing crack.
At that same instant, Clifford’s foot hardened into stone mid-motion. His backward kick slammed into the knight’s abdomen, denting steel and hurling him several yards through the air. He landed in a heap, groaning and clutching at his ribs.
The courtyard, moments ago filled with jeers, fell silent at the awful crunch of metal.
One by one, spell after spell, the champions were knocked down like stalks of wheat before the scythe.
I watched their horrified faces, the flinches that rippled through the ranks with every new blow. It was satisfying—unexpectedly so. A warmth grew in my chest, shameful at first but impossible to deny. Foolish I had been, doubting him. Foolish to have felt cowed by the Minotians.
If only the others had been here to see it. But I understood—Elena, still mourning, would never stomach such bloodsport and Edmund had offered to accompany her as she remained in the hall.
My reflection shattered at the sudden shift of sound. The crowd had found its voice again, this time cheering. The jeers became laughter. I snapped my eyes back to Clifford.
Only four knights still stood. Clifford, however, was on the ground, scrambling backwards as they advanced. They laughed, jeering openly as they drove him into the dirt.
Fear clenched my gut. I searched him for wounds, praying not to see a crimson stain. None at first.
The cheering lasted but a moment longer. Clifford thrust a hand out, and a sudden pillar of stone rose beneath one knight’s groin. The poor man folded with a strangled squeal, collapsing to the dirt to cradle what was left of his pride.
The three remaining pressed forward, forcing Clifford onto his back before he could rise.
I braced, certain he must have something left—and he did. Watching their steps closely, he summoned jagged lumps of stone beneath their boots. One stumbled and crashed down to his knees. As his palms smacked the dirt to steady himself, a fresh pillar of rock shot upward, cracking against his helm and dropping him limp to the ground.
I nearly cheered aloud. Two left.
Then I saw it. Blood. Not from blade nor arrow, but from his nostril. His body trembled. Not mana exhaustion—it hadn’t been long enough. Spell burn. Too many conjurings in too little time, his flesh rebelling against the strain.
Still his lips moved, shaping another chant. But above him loomed a shadow—the massive blade of Sir Evander himself, already descending.
"I yield!" Clifford cried out.
Too late. The swing was in motion. Even if Evander had meant to halt it—and I doubted he did—the weight carried it down. Clifford threw up his arms bare, unarmored, and this time no stone rose to shield him.
Then, from nowhere, water gushed forth like a bursting spring. It struck Evander and his sword aside, drenching both in a sudden torrent.
The Marquis stood with his arm extended, droplets running from his hand. Original content can be found at novel[f]ire.net
A water mage. I had never imagined it. That brutish man wielding such an art? Yet another lesson: never judge a dog by its bark.
The crowd howled again, louder than ever. The knights had their victory, and the mob its entertainment. Men screamed so close to me I could smell their sour breath, more rancid than greenskin blood.
"Castorian? More like cast... castrated!" one voice bellowed, and the rest shrieked with laughter as though it were the cleverest jest ever made.
Clifford and Evander staggered to their feet, dripping from head to heel, as the Marquis strode forward.
"You have failed the trial, son," Lord Boarsmouth declared. Yet he extended a hand, pulling Clifford upright with surprising strength.
"I... I am sorry to have disappointed you," Clifford murmured, bowing his head.
"Disappointed? No, no, no. Far from it." The Marquis chuckled deeply. "I never expected you to win. Though I daresay you might have, had you resisted the urge to show off."
"My lord?" Clifford blinked, confusion plain on his weary face.
"I am impressed," Boarsmouth said, voice loud enough for all to hear. "Had you not named yourself earlier, I would have thought you a viscount himself, not merely his son."
He clapped a heavy hand on Clifford’s trembling shoulder. "Tell me, Master Clifton—would you serve under me?"
"Clifford, sire..."
"How about Castellan, Clifton?" The Marquis’ teeth flashed in a grin. "Do you want Candor?"