To the Victor

by Samantha M. Derr

  The king had stood and applauded. "Congratulations, Knight Wyvern. You've proven yourself once more! You are the first to have bested my champion in ten years."

  She bowed toward the Golden Knight―he did deserve that much from her―before facing the king and bowing in his direction. "Thank you, sire. I have heard it told that you would grant a boon to anyone who can defeat your champion."

  Did she imagine it, or was there a twinkle in his eye? "That is truth, Knight Wyvern."

  "Then I ask for mine. I would like the hand of your sister, Princess Adelaide, in marriage."

  *~*~*

  Adi put her hands to her cheeks, unable to believe the words. When Renee had promised to find her an honorable solution, she had scarcely believed this would be the result. But, oh, how could this be? She needed to make a good marriage. Her rank demanded it.

  "Al?" She said softly, looking between her brother and her love, but he ignored her for the moment, intent on Renee and the hushed silence in the crowd.

  "Wyvern is your order given name, correct? Tell me what house you were born to."

  Renee shrugged. "I am the youngest daughter of Pierre du Coteau and Marie de Colline of Alcione."

  She had said the words as if they didn't matter, and indeed, since Adi had known Renee, she had never spoken of her family. But did she not realize?

  "The same Pierre du Coteau who is first cousin to the Queen of Alcione? Is that correct, Renard?" Al looked over at the ambassador to Alcione, who looked a little bit startled at being called out. If that were true, that would put Renee very close to the throne of Alcione. Marrying her would be a fine match.

  "Yes, sire, that is correct."

  "This is ridiculous!" Archduke Simeon got to his feet. "These are modern days, Allande. You do not simply give away marriage contracts based on a tournament match."

  "Indeed they are." Al narrowed his eyes at Simeon. "My dear sister, as we are reminded, these are modern times. Do you wish to marry Knight Wyvern?"

  Adi stood as well, glad to finally be taken notice of. "With all my heart."

  There were cheers from the crowd, and she grinned. Adi looked down at Renee, surprised at the sudden horror that dawned on her face. Before she could question it, Adi was jerked back. An arm had grasped her around the waist, pulling her close to Simeon. She opened her mouth to scream, but then felt the blade at her throat.

  Her mouth went dry and her lungs felt tight. He meant to take her by force. She could do nothing, not trapped like this, between him and the edge of the box. He could throw her down into the field of play after slicing her open, and no one could reach her in time.

  Someone screamed. But then the crowd went silent. Adi could see Al's knights going for their weapons, but there was no way anyone could reach her in time. She'd be dead before they could even advance.

  Renee, I'm sorry.

  "Simeon, you don't want to do this." Al was speaking in a slow voice. By Elrica's grace, perhaps Simeon would actually listen to him! "This would be an act of war."

  "So be it. It's about time this farce of a peace..." His words were cut off as blood spurted from his neck and his body dropped to the floor of the royal box. A dagger stuck out of his throat, marked at the hilt with the crest of Isaura. Renee herself had thrown it from below, doing what no other could manage.

  Adi looked down at the field, but Renee had already taken to the stairs, and soon stood in the royal box.

  "Adi." She grabbed at Adi's arms, touching her face with gloved hands. "Are you all right?"

  Chaos swirled around them, but Adi only had eyes for Renee. "You saved me, again."

  "Apparently, it's a job I'm well suited for."

  Adi blinked away tears. She stood up on her toes and kissed Renee, armor be damned. She shouldn't have been surprised when she heard the roar of the crowd in response. They won the day, somehow.

  "My people." Al raised his hands for silence. "You have witnessed the end of the fifty years of peace. But know this. Our enemies can never defeat love. And the kingdom of Hedlund will always be a place where love comes first."

  Adi had a suspicion that he'd sent her Renee on purpose, but she would never be ungrateful. "Will you give me a proper marriage proposal, my knight?"

  Renee dropped to one knee and held out her hand. "Would you have my hand, my princess?"

  "Always." She touched her neck, shivering at the thought of how close to death she'd come, and removed the leather thong with the token of Elrica attached. Renee had returned it after slaying the dragon. "Have my favor."

  Renee took the charm, kissed it, and put it around her own neck. Her dark eyes looked fierce, and when she stood, it was to take Adi in her arms and kiss her breathless.

  Whatever would come, Adi would face it with her knight by her side.

  Pipsqueak

  L.S ENGLER

  They called him Squeak, short for Pipsqueak, in regard to his very small stature, not often seen on a knight. There was also the sound his armor, which had to be custom-made for his slim frame on an equally tiny budget. Not much was known about Squeak except that he was quick and fierce and clever, easily making up for what he lacked in size. He was also gaining a reputation for having piercing, beautiful green eyes, but that one, he mostly tried to ignore.

  It was a shame that he couldn't be known for something more exciting, like slaying dragons or dismantling despots, but he was working on it. He'd just helped out the very small principality of Dunshire with a bit of a bandit problem (which turned out to be some bored teenager in need of a lot of moral discipline), and with the gold and glimmer of notoriety in his pocket, he set out to compete in the most important competition of his life: Severille's annual Festival of the Forest and Tournament of Champions, promised to be truly fun for the whole family.

  Though it had been a long time (and he wished it could have been longer still), Squeak knew he had to return this year out of any year, because this was the year that Princess Lucillia would come of age. The tournament would be held in her honor and, in that age-old barbaric custom of women being things earned, the competition held the additional prize of her hand in marriage this year. After all this time, would Lucy still recognize him? Would she remember little Pipsqueak, who had the nickname even then, for the unfortunate high pitch of his voice? So much had changed, but he knew that, if he were to rekindle their relationship any time soon, he'd better do it at the Festival, for her sake as well as his.

  Knights from all over the kingdom of Vecchia, from all over the land of Laurasia, perhaps even from all over the world of Aryneth, would migrate to Severille and flood its streets and inns and fields with their presence, a prospect that made Squeak's little heart dance in his chest. Even if he didn't win, even if he didn't place, the networking was priceless, and he looked forward to seeing his own personal heroes competing as well: Lady Jette of Hamletshire, Sir Morment Gainswellow, Hilden the Executioner. To think he could compete on the same field as these mighty giants made him tremble with excitement, though he knew if they were competing for Lucy's hand, he didn't stand a chance.

  He arrived on his swift and trusted mount, a creature that was too small to qualify him for the joust, but a bigger animal underneath him would have been absurd. He never cared for the joust, anyway, so phallic, with its long poles smashing into each other, splintering, breaking. It made him a little queasy to think about it. Not jousting could be bad for his score, but he planned to make up for it in other events. He was an excellent shot with a bow, could launch a shot put as far as the eye could see, and a truly unexpected master at combat. Everyone underestimated the tiny slip of a knight, which always worked to his advantage.

  Severille was awash in color and music and excitement, so bright and palpable that Squeak could enjoy it even before he ambled down the hill at the end of the forest road, emerging abruptly out of the trees to find the bustling city waiting. The usually open space to the north had been overtaken with tents of all sizes, sprung up around the battlefields and t
he stadium like strange mushrooms. The path swung to the south, swallowed up by the houses and huts and shops cluttered around the gates to the stone wall around the city proper, a wall all but buried under various banners and pendants. And looming over it all was the castle, its gleaming white walls and blue-tiled towers dripping with decoration like an extremely fancy cake. He hadn't seen Severille in years, and the sight of its familiarity and the memories there made his stomach knot tightly. Illness seemed to sweep through him; surely, his skin was turning a hue as green as the trampled grass around him. But he was also excited. He was happy and a little relieved to have finally made it back. He was here, and no matter how nervous he was, that was all that mattered.

  "Time to make some legends," he said to himself, urging his horse off the path and across the field toward the forest of tents. A gaggle of children, most of them in rough, homespun clothes and rags, came swarming up to him, calling out, holding out their hands or waving banners, hoping the prospective champion would grace them with favors. Something told Squeak that most of the little scavengers hadn't bothered with a low-status knight like himself, that this crowd was likely much smaller than others. But that was fine. He had nothing to give them, anyway, and he preferred to be underestimated. It always worked in his favor.

  It wasn't difficult to find out where he needed to go to register for the tournament. A fence had been erected around the battlegrounds, one small round tent in the center of the opening to collect tickets and fares and a much larger one off to the side, where a fussy-looking man scribbled away on a piece of parchment. He had just finished with another knight, who wounded his horse and headed toward the entrance. Squeak tried to size him up, weigh out what he suspected the knight's strengths might be, but he was so generic that his guess was as good as anyone's. Shiny new armor, well-groomed steed. A banner hung limply from a pole jutting up from his saddle, but Squeak didn't recognize the emblem. Probably just some minor son of a small Kyanese lord with nothing better to do.

  The little bespectacled man behind the table rolled up his parchment and handed it to the pretty young lass behind him. She gave Squeak the same cursory appraisal that he suspected she gave everyone, and then she revealed a doubtful smirk that told him all he needed to know about her opinion. It made him bristle with anger, which crawled around inside his belly, but he was used to it. It was one thing for his competition to underestimate him, but he always had a little trouble with it when the average person did it. He just had to channel the outrage into his straight spine, his squared shoulders, and his lifted chin, and he approached the man, detaching a small bag of coins from his belt and dropping it ceremoniously on the table.

  "I've come to participate in the tournament," he announced, as loudly as he could. His voice resided in the back of his throat, the only way he knew how to deepen it effectively, and his eyes flickered to the girl to see if she could tell. She could, shaking her head, still smirking and Squeak narrowed his eyes, the urge to prove himself surging. What did she know, anyway?

  The man looked up at Squeak over her spectacles, licked his lips, and then reached for the pouch. Squeak had no choice but to continue posturing for effect while his horse snuffed around in the dirt on a failed hunt for grass and clover. The man opened the pouch, rooting a bony finger inside to account for the volume of coins contained within. Though his face looked dissatisfied, he held the pouch up for the girl to take while he lifted up his quill. "Name?"

  Squeak sucked in a breath. He had been preparing for this moment, going back and forth in his mind as to what exactly he should say. As much as his nickname lacked a certain dignity, it was still gaining momentum thanks to his recent good deeds. No one would recognize the name he had chosen for himself, either. The thought of using his birth name danced across his mind then danced right back out. No one would believe him, and it would be awkward besides. He'd had the solution so many times in his rehearsed mind, but, in the actual moment, his mouth dried up, and he seemed to have forgotten how to use words.

  "Uther Lawrence Pipsqueak," he blurted out, a mishmash of things that quirked the man's eyebrow and made Squeak blush. The girl snorted a faint laugh. But let her laugh, he decided as he bolstered his pride once more. Let them think him pathetic with a dumb name, so that he might trounce them even better! And surely there were at least a few other combatants with equally ridiculous names.

  The man scribbled it down in his neat little script. "And where do you pledge your allegiance?" he asked, not even looking up from the letters.

  For a brief moment, Squeak considered saying it. He considered saying, "Here, right here. Severille is my home and always will be," but it wouldn't have been remotely true. His heart ached as he put that bold declaration aside and spoke truthfully instead.

  "I have no allegiance to claim."

  This did not surprise the man, who scribbled that down, too, without comment. A string of other questions followed—what events was he participating in, what special skills did he have, what were his official colors—and, by the end of it, Squeak felt rather tired and worn out. As soon as the bespectacled old man stamped the parchment and handed it to the girl, Squeak was just glad to be finished with it finally. He thanked the man and tipped his hat to the girl, who just laughed, though she seemed to be warming up to him.

  On the other side of the fence, the spirit of carnival was in full swing, quickly enveloping Squeak and chasing some of his wariness away. Memories of his childhood came dancing through the festivities, all the laughter, the smells, the sounds. He remembered standing at the edge of the camping field where the combatants pitched their tents, roped up their horses, practiced and sparred with each other on the well-trampled grass. He had dreamed about one day joining them, and here he was, guiding his mount to an open spot, a bit muddier than he would have liked, but it would do. He hopped down and began to loosen his saddlebags.

  "Need a hand?" The knight in the spot beside him stood up from where he sat on a log in front of a fire, warming some sort of stew in a cast iron pot. The smell hit Squeak in a way that none of the other festival food had, causing his stomach to grumble in objection to its state of emptiness. His new neighbor didn't seem to have noticed, though.

  "Yes," Squeak said, "please. Thank you. These tents can be a nightmare to assemble by one's self. You'd think they'd be designed to be easier."

  It might have been a nightmare alone, but it was a swift job with two capable people, and Squeak's round little yellow and black tent with the pointed top had joined the others in no time. He and his neighbor took a moment to admire their work before he turned to offer a hand and a proper introduction. "Name's Squeak," he said. "At least, that's what everyone calls me. Thank you for your assistance."

  The neighbor took Squeak's hand in a firm, friendly grip, clapping his other hand on Squeak's shoulder. "Think nothing of it, Sir Squeak!" There was warmth in his voice, playfully boisterous, with a smile to match, an attractive and alluring expression that made something in Squeak's chest tighten. Was this a sign for his luck turning toward the good, to make a quick camaraderie with such a striking fellow? "We may be rivals out there, but here, we are all brothers and sisters. They call me Nigel. I'm a prince, you know."

  Nigel offered this news with a jaunty waggle of his dark brows. Squeak laughed, unable to help himself. Any reservations and nervousness he had drifted away. "A prince, down here in the mud and the muck?" Squeak infused his question with enough joking skepticism to make Nigel's grin widen. "Which great lord did you piss off before coming here, then?"

  "Only my father." Nigel shrugged slightly. Some of the mirth had faded into something a bit more sad and morose, lingering a bit longer than either of them would have liked. "Are you from around here, Squeak? And, well, even if you weren't, you might still understand. You see, I'm from Beal…"

  Squeak lifted his hand. "Say no more," he said, knowing full well of that particular kingdom's penchant for having too many sons and daughters and not enough places to put them
. "Youngest of many, I'd wager?"

  "And that is a wager you would lose, my friend," Nigel said with a proud lift of his chin. "Second youngest of many! But you get high marks for being so close, all the same."

  Squeak worried that the conversation would eventually take a turn toward his own past, but, thankfully, it veered in the direction of the Festival instead. Once Squeak was settled, they went to explore the fair together, enjoying their free time before the Presentation of the Combatants that would occur when the sun set to usher in the first evening.

  Nigel made for excellent company, and, if Nigel felt differently about Squeak, he was very good at hiding it. It was almost enough to keep Squeak's mind off of the Presentation, which added weight to his gut as the hour drew near. They had just finished sharing a bit of sugared fried dough when three long horn blasts carried over the carnival and caused everything to abruptly halt.

  "There's the summons," Nigel explained. "We'd best get back and prepare ourselves. It's an hour until the presentation, and we'll want to look our most impressive."

  Presentation. The thought filled Squeak with a horrible blend of dread and excitement, making it difficult to make himself presentable at all. Would Lucy remember him, recognize him? It had been so long and so much had changed, but he had to think that she would never truly forget him. The king, though, there was another giant question looming over his head. It was far more unlikely that King Roland would remember him, but what would happen if he did? The thought made Squeak sick with worry, but he had to keep on. There was no turning back now.

  With the exception of a few young squires clearly entrenched in their first tournament, no one seemed half as nervous as Squeak, and why should they be? They rode out onto the main field under the backdrop of sunset, their names called out over the arena by a fat man with a boisterous voice, Arcturus Ritmar was his name, Squeak remembered, a man who filled his belly up with air when he made announcement, a move that had always made Lucy breathless with giggles. But he doubted she'd be laughing much now.