Age of Gold Book One to Three: To Claim a King, To Catch a Prince, To Tame a Rogue (Tales of Midgard 1)

by May Sage

  Xandrie smiled and shook her head. She’d never seen or heard of a noble behaving that way—so refreshingly. She tamed the goofy smile. No. She wasn’t going to find him charming, on top of everything else. She wouldn’t.

  “Now, let the damn Claiming begin.”

  * * *

  The lightheartedness didn’t last. Xandrie had never seen such violence. Sure, there were battles in the Northern Var and she’d been witness to amputations, lethal gashes, and beheadings, but the sheer, bloody rage these women brought to the Arena was a sight to behold. Some bouts lasted many long, heart-clenching minutes, but most were over in a couple of swipes of a well-trained sword.

  It was obvious that The Claiming was skewed in favor of the nobility, as Demelza had told her. It was they who had the superior weapons, the dedicated trainers, and the time to hone their craft to a point. The women of the lower classes limped, crawled, and hobbled out of the ring, their dreams of queenship in tatters.

  Demelza took her turn in the ring. From the moment she raised her flamberge, she comported herself with skill and dignity. The flame-sword was known for its wicked reverberations, but Demelza wielded it as though there weren’t a thousand jolts of reverb traveling up through the hilt and into her shoulders. She was an artist. Neither did her friend go for the easy victory; she fought with passion and precision, but still invited her opponents to strut their stuff.

  Demelza had explained her strategy to Xandrie, and she was visibly sticking to it. She was going to fight to send a signal that she was not to be fucked with, but she saw no need to humiliate anyone who’d had the guts to appear before the highest in the land and fight. Their families were in the stands; these women would have to go home and tell tales of battling for the king’s hand. She wanted them to do so with pride. No one who fought her left the ring demoralized or with more than a scratch. She danced with them until they relented, then bowed as they exited. No surprise, then, that she was the crowd’s favorite.

  Demelza had won every bout she’d fought and come out top of her ranking when she was paired against the statuesque blonde Xandrie recognized; the one who’d led that Councilman away from her earlier. The crier identified her as Saskia Xaxan.

  Saskia was clearly of noble birth; she held herself in a way that made that clear, and she wore shining armor that made Xandrie smile.

  Honestly, these things that all these women, her friend included, were adorned in could hardly pass as armor, come to think of it. It was made of metal, sure, but it seemed crafted to flatter their figure rather than to stop a blade from piercing their skin. Saskia’s was worse; most of her breasts and stomach were exposed.

  Xandrie wondered if it was she that the king had meant, when he’d said he wanted to put money on the pretty blonde, and right then, she wanted the woman to lose. Badly.

  Not that it would make a difference—to win the first round, they simply had to win one single fight. She’d bet anything that the woman had won her fair share.

  “Saskia,” Demelza greeted, bobbing her head. “You look well.”

  They knew each other, then. The other woman sent a stiff nod her way in response, without saying a word. There was some history there.

  The crowd must have felt the tension, too, for a hush fell upon them and did not lift when the women each selected their weapon for the bout. Demelza took up her beloved helmet-breaker, with its sharp, dirk-like point while Saskia went for the more predictable, yet just as efficient, longsword. Both women clearly meant business. They began in a blur of silver, so fast it was almost impossible to see who had the upper hand or whether either of them was injured.

  For the first time that day, the bout went long. Demelza and Saskia lunged and pricked, dodged and parried, swung, and slashed, and swiped at each other with heaving grunts and cries. The stands were awash with onlookers screaming for Demelza.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Xandrie saw a flower—a gorgeous orange lily—soar over their heads and into the ring below. It was meant as a tribute, but Demelza turned her head, no doubt checking to make sure no one else had entered the fight.

  As Demelza turned, Saskia charged, her sword ripping through Demelza’s sleeve and slicing her arm.

  Red. Demelza was bleeding—and not just a little. Fuck.

  The crowd was on its feet, screaming for justice.

  Xandrie didn’t question her actions; first, she turned to Claws and told him, “stay,” then she leaped to her feet, took three steps, and launched herself over the barrier and into the ring, then threw herself in front of her friend, shielding her from further assault.

  Demelza would do the honorable thing. She would acquiesce, if she’d lost. But no one should be permitted to take her down with villainy.

  The Replacement

  Not a second after Saskia skewered Demelza’s arm, Rhey was on his feet and half way out of the royal enclosure. Bad enough that there had been blood spilled in his name, but his friend being slashed when her back was turned was more than he could bear.

  Nathos held him in check, his fist tight around Rhey’s arm. No words were necessary: it wouldn’t do for him to show favoritism today, even though Demelza was easily the darling of the hour. Royal lines had been toppled with less provocation.

  The crowd, gasped and, looking back at the ring, Rhey saw why. Xandrie. Of course, Xandrie. He wasn’t even surprised. She’d vaulted from the stands, jumping down without fear, and when the angry, full-fledged dragon warrior advanced to finish her fight, she stood between the woman and her prey.

  A white tiger roared in the stands, pawing at the lip of the ring, threatening to join in. Xandrie held up her hand and spoke a word Rhey couldn’t catch. Her animal sat, his eyes on his mistress, but made no further move to defend her.

  Nathos was at Rhey’s side, begging the king to remain in the royal box. The problem was a technical one, he explained. “Had play been halted or not? It’s that simple.”

  The Code of Combat Conduct dictated that no person be permitted to strike a blow if the bout was halted.

  Saskia was screaming foul. Her claim was that there’d been no signal, no sign, from the marshal that there was a break in the proceedings. “I struck in good faith,” she bellowed.

  Unfortunately, she was right, but Demelza had been distracted by an outsider, which was also outlawed.

  The Elders huddled around Rhey, urging him to resume play, but Demelza was injured, badly—her arm hung limp at her side and ran red—and he longed to end the whole damned mess. He knew she’d kill him if he interfered with her ability to determine her own fate, though. Then again, he couldn’t let her continue with a slashed arm.

  His heart stopped for a beat, as it often did when his eyes fell on the dauntless human in the pit, but it wasn’t lust that burned inside him now. It was hope. Struck by an idea—a stupid idea he couldn’t quite formulate—Rhey whispered in Nathos’ ear. His Councilor beckoned a squire and relayed the order.

  Xandrie bound Demelza’s arm with strips torn from her own blouse and took up her sword. She glared at Rhey from below.

  It wasn’t something he was accustomed to, but the woman was clearly challenging him. Her defiant stance dared him to order her to step away. She had run afoul of the rules by entering the ring, but the fact that she didn’t break eye contact signaled she didn’t give a good goddamn about their laws. She loved Demelza and he had no doubt that she would take her place in combat in a heartbeat.

  The question was, was she allowed to? And would she survive it?

  Against anyone else, he would have thought that she had a chance, at least, but it was Saskia, Nathos’ niece. The woman had a reputation for being fierce, and bloodthirsty.

  His instincts were torn. He rebelled against all possibilities; he didn’t like endangering Demelza, or endangering Xandrie—but he had a choice to make. One woman or the other.

  The squire returned to the Royal Box with a tome three-hands thick. Nathos and his cronies broke the book open and pored over its c
ontents. Rhey continued to watch Xandrie, who continued to stare at him, but he had one ear on the debate raging behind him.

  “Any creature—be they dragon-born or nay—carrying dragon blood in their veins is eligible to enter The Claiming,” Alfot read, an Elder known for his love of the law.

  A Councilman sucked his teeth, the way he always did when something irritated him. “She’s no dragon.”

  “The law is clear,” Alfot stipulated. “She need only have dragon blood.”

  “But she doesn’t shift…”

  “There are dragons aplenty who do not shift, Vincent among them. It is not a barrier to her entering the fray. This is the law.”

  Rhey sighed, wondering if they were going to be there ’til winter—gods knew the Elders could argue for days—but Nathos surprised them all.

  “Let’s stop kidding ourselves,” he begged. “She’s a dragon rider. Test her blood if you must—you’ll find Aether and fire aplenty.”

  Rhey turned to his advisor, who held his hand up in surrender, “We’ll talk of this another time. Let’s resolve this matter first. What might the king have to add to a decision that lacks precedent?”

  Rhey found his lips curving, and his chest lightening. How unexpected. And perfect.

  “The law is the law, and the law is clear. If the woman has dragon blood, as you say, she may fight.” He sat, and turned his eyes down towards the pit, focusing on hers. “Let her fight for me.”

  “The king has spoken.”

  Indeed, he had. He’d allowed the woman he couldn’t chase away from his mind to enter the tournament that might make her his.

  If she won the fight, she was in.

  He didn’t release her from his gaze, eyes narrowed almost threateningly. Don’t mess this up, he wished he could say. But, as no private words could be exchanged now, he did the only thing a king could do without causing an uprising.

  “Alexandria hasn’t brought her weapons, and isn’t appropriately attired.”

  He drew the two swords buckled at his belt and threw the first towards Saskia.

  “Melnak, the Death Bringer. It has killed a thousand men and is still just as sharp, and just as thirsty for blood.” Then the second was tossed at Xandrie’s feet. No one would know what it meant, not even her. “Laria. It’s lighter.”

  Some chuckled, others were offended on her behalf, believing he’d written her out, thinking he’d given her nothing more than an oversized letter opener; Laria was made of gold, and looked small, even pitiful perhaps. It was also his mother’s blade, an elven-made, magic-infused sword he valued dearly. Part of his treasure.

  Vincent and Demelza turned to him, visibly shocked; they recognized it, then.

  “Fight with heart and honor.”

  * * *

  They did.

  Saskia lunged first and that was all it took; the two of them were a whirlwind of wild weaponry and skill, on both parts—the dragoness knew how to comport herself with grace, and Xandrie knew just how to get under her skin, avoid her blows, and gain an inch with moves that weren’t quite the form. Rhey smirked as she tripped the fire-breather, using the knowledge he’d shared—Saskia hadn’t paid attention to her balance.

  The women were strangely matched but, after a full twenty minutes of unstinting sword play, Xandrie used Saskia’s speed as she lunged, moving at the very last second and backing her up against the wall of the pit, holding Laria at her throat.

  “Concede,” she growled low, and Rhey grew hard.

  Saskia nodded and let Melnak fall to her side.

  Holy fireball. Xandrie was the victor.

  The stands exploded in celebration. An upstart had upset the apple cart. Most of them knew she was human, yet fought her way to the next round; she was the only person without a drop of noble dragon blood who’d made it.

  Rhey stood and threw his cape over his shoulder, calling an end to the day’s play. He knew Xandrie—drenched in sweat, gasping for breath, her mouth wet and wild—was going to haunt his dreams again, but for once, he wouldn’t chastise himself for it.

  She was in the running. And who knew? It would take a lot of training, but she may just win herself a king.

  Dance

  Xandrie watched with a wince as the nurses dressed Demelza’s wound, wishing that Talia was there again. The combination of goldenseal and comfrey crushed into the healing poultice they used reminded her of her sister. They could have used a healer with Talia’s powers right about now. The gash Saskia had carved in Demelza’s arm was deep. She wanted to be sure it didn’t get infected. They’d both been green-lighted into the quarter-finals of The Claiming and she knew Demelza would rather chop her own arm off at the joint than throw in the towel and let the women of the Court lord it over her. dragons were apparently very proud, and perhaps a little stupid, too.

  “We only have a month to get you fighting fit.”

  “I’ll have one of our mages look at it; they’ll speed the healing along.”

  Xandrie turned away, the better to hide her misgivings. She was almost as worried for her own performance as she was for Demelza’s. There were only ten contestants left in The Claiming—herself, Saskia, and Demelza included—but they were fearsome women with serious battle skills.

  The celebrations following the first tournaments did manage to entertain her and keep her mind from everything else for a few hours, but because of her wound, Demelza wasn’t in attendance, and Xandrie felt awkward in the middle of a melee of strangers.

  Once the singing began in earnest, she and Claws slipped away from the festivities. She needed some time to think. They made their way to the hanging gardens on the south side of the palace grounds. No one would be there this late, and there was a fragrant peace about the place that she found calming.

  She sat under a lilac bush so large it resembled a tree, her hands running over Claws’ fur. She searched herself for a reaction and found her newfound pride was tinged with sadness.

  She smelled him before she saw him, his scent unmistakable. The king was close by, for crying out loud. She scrabbled but only managed to get to her knees.

  “I don’t mean to disturb you,” he said.

  Xandrie found her feet and stood. “I was just leaving.” She didn’t want to interrupt what small private time the man might have.

  “I came to thank you, personally,” he said. “Elza is a good friend of mine and it wouldn’t have done to see her fight in her condition. Taking her place was incredibly brave of you.” After a small pause, he smiled and said, “Can’t be saying all that in public without Nathos going off half-cocked about protocol and procedure, but you showed both skill and guts out there.”

  Xandrie smiled but she knew it wasn’t quite reaching her eyes; he caught it right away.

  “You’ll forgive the presumption, but you seem, I don’t know, sad?” he said.

  The man was unfortunately perceptive. She took a deep breath. She might as well befriend him. She lived here now, and, as she had no inclination of ever returning to Malec, and didn’t belong anywhere else, she needed to be able to talk to the man without falling over her own damned tongue.

  “I come from a family of mages,” she said.

  “Elza said as much.”

  “I was the family embarrassment.”

  Rhey raised his eyebrows, inviting her to go on.

  “I had no powers, no magics, nothing they could add to their arsenal of offerings. So, I was little more than their maid.” She looked away, determined not to tear up. “And now, I have magics, and I don’t know what to think of it. Perhaps I resent it for not having it before?”

  Rhey was silent, so she thought she might have bored him to death, but, just when she was about to make her excuses and leave him in peace, he told her, “Sorry, I’m rather useless when it comes to making people feel better. I can distract you, though.”

  Rhey stepped towards her, and her blood bloomed through her entire body, threatening to undo her. She’d be a puddle at his feet if he
so much as laid a finger on her. She wanted to launch herself into his arms and mash her mouth onto his, but she managed to restrain herself.

  He reached, grinning, for her shoulder and everything inside her just died, but Rhey only grabbed the sword strapped to her back and presented it to her with a ceremonial flourish. “Come at me,” he said.

  Xandrie was flush with relief. He meant to fight her, not touch her.

  Well, she could certainly use the practice, and the distraction. She didn’t need to be told twice. She came at Rhey with all she had.

  There was no doubt that the king was more powerful than she, Demelza, Vincent, and anyone else she’d ever fought. The way he moved was nothing short of art, a lethal dance. Each of his moves could have killed.

  “Wait, please,” she begged, holding her hand up, and the man stopped, tilting his head.

  Xandrie retraced his steps, trying to make her muscles remember the way he moved, learn his magical steps. It was awkward. He refused to acknowledge that the natural course was to walk forward—instead, he seemed to follow a certain, chaotic pattern.

  Then it hit her. It was a dance, meant to confuse his adversary. She was pretty certain it worked.

  “You follow certain steps.”

  “Very good. You may be the first to have worked that out. I might have to kill you so you don’t share my secret,” he whispered, standing so close she could feel his warmth.

  “Or, mister, you could just show me how to do it, too. Right, left, left, behind, right, forward, forward, left…” she tried, but he stopped her, his hands on her hips as he stood close behind her.

  Then, he really danced with her.

  “Follow me.”

  And she did. All night, she danced. It was dawn when he took her to her room.

  “Alexandria?”

  “Xandrie,” she corrected automatically.

  “You have a real chance at winning this, if you follow Vincent’s tutelage.”