“No bother.” The knight’s smile was too fierce, and too yellow, and stank of onions. “Chip away.”
“Oh God,” I muttered. A final push sent me stumbling, then a click sounded behind me. I was in the pen. And they had closed the gate. “Gentlemen,” I tried, still holding the sword out for someone to take. “I, ah, love the spirit of this, really, but I don’t have my armour—”
“It doesn’t have any arms,” someone shouted, and laughter rippled through the knights. “You make a good pair!”
“I have an upset stomach!” I cried. “I ate a bad trout. Something might happen!”
“We’ll stay upwind,” another voice called.
Slowly, very slowly, I turned to face the construct. My tight-laced jacket—though it lookedfantastic—restricted my motions. The stylish sleeves scarcely allowed me to raise my arms above the shoulders, and they expected me to swing a sword?
I mean, I could. Very well, in fact. Just . . . not now. At any other time, though, certainly.
Shouts rose from behind me, taking on a sharper edge the more I hesitated. The pen, already clipped clean by unicorn teeth and trodden into mud, now contained a small ditch where the construct hopped and twisted and clacked its beak. The thing, in its fury, was digging itself into a hole.
I swallowed and marched forward, stepping around heapsof unicorn dung mottled with flies. Their buzzing reflected the keening in my skull as I drew closer and closer.
Twin green flames fixed on me. A chain hooked through the construct’s gut, the other end securing it firmly to the pole. My sword gave me a longer reach than the beast, but if it were to seize me and close that shear-like beak across my face . . .
Sweat loosened my grip on the sword. I clenched my fingers, determined not to fumble.
“It isn’t worth it,” I mumbled, too quiet for anyone else to hear. “Just leave and be humiliated. This simply is not worth it.”
The construct tilted its head, flames wavering with the motion.
I circled it, eyeing the carved-up soil, judging how much leeway the chain gave. On my third circuit, the construct lunged. I fell backward with a shriek, and scrambled away, scarcely keeping hold of my weapon, while on all sides my fellow knights jeered and hooted.
Standing and brushing myself free of dirt, I smiled and waggled the sword at them. Just to make it clear I was a participant in the fun. Then, the construct twitched a claw—I swung back to it, holding the sword at a practiced angle. Noise no longer carried past the pounding in my ears.
Lunge, and swing. Lunge, and swing. That was all I had to do. “Easy peasy,” I babbled.
The construct darted forward, its foul beak stretched in a silent scream. A non-silent scream tore from my own throat. I lunged and swung, impact jarring my elbow.
The construct’s head bounced, twice, before rolling to a stop before my feet. As I stared, the green glow of its eyes faded.
“Oh.” I took quick steps backward, away from the brokenthing. Belatedly, it occurred to me that I should wave at the crowd and have them cheer. I held the sword high, where it vibrated with my arm’s trembling. “Huzzah!”
If I didn’t know better, I’d say the men looked disappointed. “Let’s go,” someone muttered, and the crowd began to disperse, knights hopping from their bars and tossing rabbit skewers. It didn’t take long for the area to clear—except for the knight who’d lent me his sword, who waited, palm out. When I placed it in his hands with gracious thanks, he simply grunted and left.
Which left me alone in the pen with the decapitated construct. Deprived of life, it looked no more dangerous than firewood. Yet I could still make out the contours of its empty eye sockets and the gape of its beak. I shrugged off my unease and left, unhooking the gate with only minor difficulty. “They called me a lion,” I muttered, as I followed my stomach to the dining hall. “That was nice. I am a bit of a lion, aren’t I?”
The long, dreary room was already full by the time I filed in, the torchlight flickering with the force of the noise. I slid in beside Sir Babbet, whose silence I could usually rely on. It’d be best if my jangled nerves weren’t rubbed upon any further, at least for the evening.
“Lads.” I nodded in greeting, then leaned over to grasp a plate of roast beast. My fingers brushed the edges of it but couldn’t quite hook on. “Could someone, ah . . .”
A thickset knight pushed the dish toward me with enough force that I flinched. “Sir Cameron,” he boomed. “I caught your performance.”
“Thank you!” I said, before realizing that he’d forgotten to add a compliment.
The knight chewed slowly, flecks of meat occasionally making their way down his chin. “Anyway. Didn’t think we’d be seeing you today.”
“Oh? Why is that, Sir Galahad?”
A nasal voice pitched in from across the table. “When battles brew, you always seem to go missing.”
“Do I?” I filled my plate carefully with slices of roast griffin-duck. The gravy dripped abominably, and I was wearing my best jacket—a scarlet that set off the rosiness of my cheeks, slashed along the sleeves to reveal an underlayer of Vaillancourt gold. “Anyway, who’s fighting?”
A hush fell over the table, and too many heads once again turned my way.
