Griffin heard enough. He threw Cornwall up against the wall. “Maggie is no trollop. And her father wouldn’t know a spell if his life depended on it.”
He let go but glared at Cornwall as he slid down the wall and slunk away, rubbing his arm.
“You defended her, rather than your prince,” Malcolm said, coming away from the exchange knowing more than Griffin should have allowed.
The skies were blanket gray, with darker, more threatening clouds rolling beneath. What’s more, Griffin’s knee ached along the cap. It was going to rain, and soon. The arena’s roof only sheltered the spectators. The center was open to the elements. When it rained, the dirt turned to slippery mud, giving draignochs an advantage because of their weight. Griffin was glad he wasn’t fighting today.
A horn declared the axe competition, and Marshal Duncan called the knights. Sleep deprived, on the ride down into the ring on the lift, Griffin’s body felt like it was at the end of a very long day rather than the beginning. Not even the people chanting his name energized him.
A drizzling rain started. He lifted the axe with his healed hand, wincing. Then he shook his hand out, grimacing. He set the axe down between his feet and cracked his knuckles.
“Is he all right?” he heard someone call from the stands.
Griffin picked up the axe, tossed it in the air, caught it, and was rewarded with whistles and cheers. He lifted it above his head.
“He is! Sir Griffin’s hand is healed!”
They hooted, clapping their hands.
The king raised a glass at him, calling, “The champion is ready.”
As Griffin lowered his arm, he felt a strange jerk in the handle of the axe that sent his pulse racing.
While Silas threw first, Griffin examined the wood, finding a split that would leave his throw unbalanced.
“What’s wrong?” Malcolm asked.
Griffin ground his teeth. “Handle’s split.”
“The champion, Sir Griffin, didn’t check his weapon?” Cornwall sniggered.
“Shut up, Cornwall.” Malcolm shoved his brother. “Go change it out, Griffin.”
“There’ll be none of that,” Duncan declared. “Rules are rules. You’ll have to throw with it.”
“That’s ridiculous, and dangerous,” Malcolm exclaimed. “When I beat him, it will be fairly.”
“But that’s exactly the point, Sir Malcolm—fairness. Sir Griffin does not get to alter the rules. He will have to throw with this axe, or bow out,” Duncan spat.
Bowing out, he could never do. Griffin was afraid to test the axe much more in fear of making it worse.
A cheer went up from the crowd. After two perfect rotations, Silas’s axe struck the far left of the target.
“Next, Sir Griffin,” Duncan called. He took several steps back, giving Griffin a wide berth.
Griffin raised a finger. The wind had shifted with the drizzling rain. The ground had become slick, the top layer a muddy stew that stuck to Griffin’s boots as he stepped to the throwing line.
King Umbert and the prince both stood at the balcony railing, waiting for Griffin to raise a fist in their honor.
Time slowed.
His stomach churned like he’d eaten broken glass. Griffin held his breath, his chest warming with fear. He stepped forward, swinging downward, then raised the axe over his head and threw, releasing as his arm paralleled the ground.
Griffin heard the crack when it left his hand. He watched in horror as the head came off with so much momentum carrying upward, it spiraled out of control toward the stands filled with people. Shocked screams sailed with it, turning to shrieks when the blade struck a boy in the first row of the stands. In the Bottom’s rows. His shirt was instantly soaked in blood.
Griffin blinked. Did that really happen?
The horn blew, halting the event.
Griffin’s knees wanted to buckle, but he refused to let them. He didn’t care about the boos that followed him as he sprinted across the arena. He deserved them all. Stupid. Careless. Irresponsible. How could he let this happen?
He slipped twice in the mud, skidding the last five feet, and looked up the twenty-foot smooth wall that was impossible to climb. His father cradled the boy as he wailed and gasped in turn while another man coaxed the axe out of his shoulder. Tiny, he couldn’t have been more than three.
“Got it!”
The axe head fell over the wall, nearly hitting Griffin on the head.
Thoma had somehow worked his way over to help. He stood beside them, leaning over the rail.
“He’s bleeding bad, Griff.”
From the concern in Thoma’s voice, Griffin worried he didn’t have long. There were only two physicians in the Walled City, none of them accessible to people in the Bottom. No one would help him, unless . . .
Maggie!
The wall was too high, but if he could get the boy to the lift, and ride him up to the Top section . . .
“Can you lower him to me?” Griffin asked, gesturing frantically. “Use your cloaks! Hurry!”
His father gaped as Thoma took him from his arms. “Are you mad?”
“I know someone who can help!” Griffin insisted. “Please! Let me try!”
Within seconds, Thoma lowered the boy in a makeshift cradle into Griffin’s waiting arms. The boy had gone quiet. He was still breathing, but barely.
“What the hell is he doing, Jori?” King Umbert’s furious bellow echoed in the ring.
Griffin didn’t care about the king’s anger either. He had the boy, and now all he needed was Maggie. Racing back, he passed his gawking competition, only adding to his anxiety. He lunged into the lift. The other competitors joined him; why? He didn’t know, but their weight would make it impossible to move quickly.
“Get out!” he barked.
All did except Silas. “I’ve already thrown.”
“Your fight is next!” Griffin yelled in a rush.
“They won’t start without me, that’s for damn sure. Let me put pressure on the wound. Might give him a few more minutes!”
Shocked the old chieftain’s arrogant son would care whether a Bottom boy lived or died, Griffin nodded, grateful.
Silas stomped to get the damn lift moving.
“Hurry up!” Griffin yelled at the men on the pulley ropes.
“Put your backs into it!” Silas added. “The boy’s life depends on it!”
Silas ripped his shirt beneath his tunic, balling the fabric. He sucked in a sharp breath at the sight of the wound, but pressed the fabric, then pushed the boy’s arm across his chest, holding it there. “Surprised his arm is still hanging on.”
His heart in his throat, Griffin couldn’t speak. He only wanted to get to Maggie. She would be there, waiting for him in the tunnel. Even if she hated him, she would help if she could.
When the lift jerked to a stop at the top, Maggie wasn’t in the tunnel. This could expose her gifts, something Griffin knew she was against. But he was only a tiny boy!
He moaned against Griffin’s chest, the vibrations stabbing his heart. He tried and failed to open his eyes.
“Fine.” If Maggie wasn’t coming to him, if she was too much of a coward, Griffin would take the boy to her. Once she saw him, how could she refuse him help?
A single guard blocked the door to the stairwell leading to the balcony. Griffin recognized him from the king’s chambers the other night. The rest of the guards had taken up positions on the bridge.
“Wait here,” Griffin said to Silas.
Griffin nodded to the guard, who didn’t hesitate. He pulled open the door to the stairwell. But Griffin only made it three steps when clanking and banging stopped him in his tracks.
Daylight burst in from the top.
“I don’t give a rat’s bottom about what the prince wants!” Maggie growled, racing down the steps.
“Maggie!” Griffin was overwhelmed with emotion.
“Made quite the mess of things, Griffin of the Bottom.” She yanked the boy from his arms.
The little thing’s eyes parted; his mouth dropped. He gasped for breath.
“Get back here, lass, or I’ll lock you in irons!” Raleigh threatened. He barreled down the stairs.
“Don’t let him follow me!” Maggie kicked the door open and darted out.
Griffin rushed up the stairs, arms extended, leaving no room for Raleigh to get by. Raleigh shouldered him, knocking him into the wall so hard his breath caught. He snaked around Griffin, but Griffin pivoted, landing a stiff kick in Raleigh’s back, sending him careening down the stairs.
Griffin leaped over his disoriented mentor, making it into the tunnel before he could recover. Griffin slammed the door shut, put his back to it, and dug his heels in.
“Maggie left, with the boy?” Griffin asked the guard.
He nodded, pointing a finger toward the bridge. “Went that way.”
“Excellent.” Hope bloomed as the door jerked, smacking him in the back.
“Um, Sir Griffin, what’re you doing?” the guard asked.
“Giving her a head start, obviously.” Griffin winced as the door jolted again, harder this time. “She’s taking the boy to the physician. She is very gifted in the medicinal arts. Raleigh was put out. Didn’t want her to leave.”
Silas added his weight to the door. “Why?”
Griffin groaned at the burning in his thighs. “It’s a mystery to me. Perhaps he too thinks her a rare beauty and didn’t want her to get her hands dirty.”
“She is that.” Silas strained. “How much longer do we need to give her?”
Griffin ticked off a few more seconds in his head. “That should be good.” The two simultaneously stepped away from the door.
Raleigh and Moldark fell out.
“Ah, Moldark,” Griffin cried. “That’s why we were having trouble, Silas.”
“What’s that mean?” Moldark growled.
“Shut up, fool,” Raleigh griped at Moldark. “Where is she?” he barked at Griffin.
“That way.” The guard pointed again.
Raleigh went after Maggie, with a cursing Moldark drudging behind him.
The rain picked up.
The crowd grew restless, stamping their feet, calling for the marshal to do his job. Guards flooded the tunnel from the balcony. The largest settled beside Griffin, standing arms crossed, like an immovable mountain. “King demands the event to start back. Says you’re to have another go. That axe was tampered with.”
“It’s true!” Bradyn called, jogging into the tunnel. He was out of breath, his cloak sopping wet. He carried another axe with him. “This is your new one that Hugo brought you the other day, Sir Griffin! They brought you the wrong one!”
“Then it wasn’t tampered with,” Griffin said.
“Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t. All I know is that this is your axe.” Bradyn thrust the handle at Griffin.
He hesitated. His mind told him to do as he was told. No one in the Walled City, especially not the king, ever gave second chances. But he had thrown the broken axe. He could have yielded his turn, but he did not. It was his mistake. And as much as his head begged him to do it, swallow his pride and take this gift from the king, his heart refused. His hands red with the boy’s blood, he didn’t deserve another throw.
“I can’t.”
Bradyn nodded, but not with disappointment. Even at his age, he understood.
Griffin elbowed Silas. “Get down there.”
Silas patted Griffin on the shoulder. “Yes. Don’t want to leave Northmen waiting in the rain too much longer.” He winked and paced slowly to the lift at the end of the tunnel.
Maggie was taking too long. She’d healed his hand in seconds. What if Raleigh found her before she could help? What if the boy was lying in the streets, dying?
Griffin tried to walk past the guards, hoping to be of some use to her, but they refused to let him out. “Sorry, Sir Griffin. King’s orders. You’re to be taken up to the balcony as soon as this event is over.”
There was only one reason a knight was called to the balcony: praise or punishment. There was nothing to praise today. King Umbert preferred public punishment to demean those who let him down. A sign the king had lost faith in him and was perhaps seeking a new champion.
And here he thought if anyone would’ve caused him to be disgraced before the king, it would’ve been Maggie over their excursion last night. Instead, this mess was of Griffin’s own making. He didn’t check his weapon before the event. He lost focus, and it cost him. It cost that poor boy. If Maggie couldn’t save him, Griffin would never forgive himself.
He leaned on the wall, scraping the dirt with the heel of his boot, trying not to vomit as competition started. He padded to the end of the tunnel to watch. The rain was light but steady; all threw at a fast clip. Malcolm’s throw hit beside Silas’s.
Oak’s release was slow. The axe lumbered, barely making a complete rotation before it hit and stuck in the far outer ring.
Cornwall strutted to the line, taking his time, raising his arms to the crowd as if he had fans. As Griffin watched him, anger blossomed. The younger Northman waited to go last on purpose. It was probably he who damaged the other axe and paid the boy to bring it to Griffin. With Griffin humiliated, last was as coveted as first because it was infinitely more memorable than somewhere in the middle, so long as Cornwall bettered the others. A plan extremely well executed if he hit dead center.
A tie would be a dull ending, but a boy, even younger than Griffin when he won last year, a true underdog, if he could win, they would recount the tale tonight in the pubs and over the supper table. They would ask his name and remember it, watching for him especially when he fought his first draignoch.
The people stood up and quieted.
Smooth lift. Confident release. Cornwall’s form was perfect, and so was his throw.
The axe struck dead center with a definitive thwack.
A bull’s-eye.
Rocking fists, surprised laughter, and unbridled cheering erupted. Cornwall jogged the rim of the arena, milking out every last bit of applause, soaking up every bit of fame he could muster.
After, the knights entered the lift. Griffin paced, worrying about Maggie and the boy. Where was she?
The lift returned with the other competitors. Cornwall made the mistake of sauntering up to Griffin, beaming with pride. “Fickle bunch, aren’t they? Fair-weather fans. No real respect for their champion at all.”
Griffin backed him up to the wall, pressing his forearm against his neck, feeling the pissant’s fragile pulse beat beneath his wrist. “You’ve won nothing. It was you, wasn’t it? You split the wood on the handle of that axe? You paid to have it brought to me? You arrogant bastard! That boy is likely dead because of what you did!”
“What are you saying?” Malcolm tried to pull Griffin off, to no avail.
Cornwall gagged. He beat Griffin’s arm, trying to get free, but didn’t stand a chance. His eyes bulged past normal. With a hard jerk, Griffin could snap his scrawny neck as easy as a chicken’s.
“Griffin, stop!” Malcolm insisted.
“He’s a liar!” he spat at Malcolm. “Nothing but a no-good cheat!” Griffin snarled in Cornwall’s ear.
Cornwall coughed, trying to shake his head.
Malcolm yanked on Griffin’s wrist, giving Cornwall a small measure of relief. “He was with me all night last night, and this morning. Believe me! He didn’t tamper with your axe.”
“Then who did?” Griffin eased off.
Cornwall slipped far enough away to pull his sword. He aimed it in Griffin’s direction.
“Go on then! Let’s finish this if that’s what you want!”
Silas laughed at him. “Put that away before Griffin kills you, worthless, and then we have to kill your less-than-worthless brother for defending you.”
“Glad to know I’m less than worthless,” Malcolm added.
Scrambling footsteps behind them stole their attentions. Griffin heard her before he saw her.
“Get your
filthy hands off me!” Maggie yelled.
Twisting and turning, she grappled with Raleigh and Moldark, the two struggling to lift her by the arms. Her dark curls had fallen out of the elegant braided bun. The hem of her red dress whipped, tossing muck from the damp road. But it was her hands that drew Griffin’s attention. They were covered in blood.
Blood.
Griffin pulled his sword. “What did you do?” He shoved Moldark off Maggie.
Moldark bounced off the wall, stumbling over his own foot, crashing onto his back, barely missing Griffin’s stretched blade.
“Stop!” Maggie exclaimed. “It’s not mine. It was the boy’s.” She gave a sad, resigned sigh. “Alas, I was right about you, Sir Griffin. You’re a terrible shot. Beneath all that fabric was a scrape.”
“A scrape?” Silas asked incredulously.
“The boy’s arm was nearly severed, wasn’t it?” Oak said.
“Where is he?” Griffin asked Maggie.
“I ran into your friend. The one with the eyebrows so thick they deserve names of their own.”
“Dres.”
“That’s the one. He promised to return him to his father. He knows the way to the Bottom,” Maggie explained.
“Because Dres belongs in the Bottom, and has no business sitting with the Top,” Raleigh said for Griffin’s benefit.
“Why not? All the seats look the same to me.” Maggie smiled.
Griffin could kiss her. That was, if either of them wanted anything like that.
One of the guards whispered in Raleigh’s ear.
Raleigh, still holding on to Maggie’s arm, spat on the ground in front of Griffin. “The king wants a word.”
“Yes, I was informed.” Griffin plastered a smile on his face, trying to cover the stabbing daggers in his stomach. “If the king wants a word, then he shall of course have it.” He held an arm out to Maggie. “The stairs are steep.”
Raleigh arched a brow at Griffin but let go of Maggie.
She held on to Griffin, gracing him with a tired grin. “This has been a never-ending day, hasn’t it?”
And it wasn’t over.
The Color of Dragons Page 17
