All the kids joined in on the final number. “THREE!”
Conleth had been expecting Ragvald to underestimate him. He was braced to carefully match the wyrm’s force, ensuring a lengthy (and hopefully, from Paige’s perspective, photogenic) struggle. It would give the game away if he pulled the man clean off his feet, after all.
He was thus entirely unprepared for Ragvald to yank on the rope with his full unholy strength.
His power kicked in, but he was already off the ground. With no way to alter his trajectory and no room to shift, the burst of speed only gave him a subjective eternity to fully appreciate the inevitability of the approaching mud puddle before he landed in it.
Face first.
Spitting out mud, he pushed himself up. He was still speeding, he realized. All around, the crowd appeared frozen in expressions ranging from disappointment to outright glee. Archie, he noted, had the broadest grin of all.
Conleth took a moment to scrape the mud off his face. There seemed to be little else he could do to salvage the situation, short of sprinting for the horizon and taking to the sea. Grimacing, he forced himself to slow.
Time snapped back to normal. The low, distorted roar of the crowd shifted up to cries of triumph and groans of despair.
Paige pushed through the crowd, hurrying to his side. “Are you okay?”
“Apart from my irreparably shattered dignity, yes.” He ran a hand through his hair, realizing too late that this had done farmore harm than good. “Well, so much for that. At least it’s over now.”
“First victory to me!” Ragvald roared. He pounded his bare chest in triumph. “Come, friend Conleth! Why are you sitting there? Take up the rope once more!”
“What,” Conleth said flatly.
“Surely you did not think to play but a single round,” Ragvald declared, striding over. Conleth found himself bodily hauled out of the mud like a bedraggled kitten. “A bout of toga honk does not end until one warrior concedes defeat. We are just getting started!”
Paige bit her lip. “I think Conleth’s had enough toga honk for one day.”
In Conleth’s opinion, Conleth had had enough toga honk for the rest of his life. Ragvald, however, was having none of it.
“Surely you would not insult friend Conleth by implying he wishes to surrender so soon, shield-sister.” Ragvald steered him back toward the rope with all the delicacy and consideration of a bulldozer. “Only the most craven of cowards would flee after the first blow.”
“I thought,” Conleth said through clenched teeth, “you were trying to help me, Ragvald.”
“And indeed I am,” the wyrm replied in a low whisper. “Patience, friend Conleth. Your mate will see your worth, never fear.”
Ragvald returned to his end of the rope, wrapping it around his wrist once more. “Again!”
“But you’re much bigger and heavier than Uncle Conleth,” Beth protested. “You’ll just yank him over again.”
“Don’t think you can get out of our bet that easily,” Flora said. “You should have thought of that before staking all those desserts.”
Ragvald stroked his beard, frowning. “No, young hatchling, the little shield-maiden makes a good point. Iama wyrm, after all, while friend Conleth is but an outlander. There is no honor to be had in defeating those much weaker than yourself.”
“Excuse me,” Conleth snapped. “I am standing right here.”
“For now,” Buck said under his breath.
“We shall make this a fair contest!” Ragvald declared. With a flourish, he put one arm behind his back. “Behold! I shall jerk Conleth off one-handed!”
Moira made a strangled sound. “Over, Ragvald. Not off.”
Ragvald’s brow furrowed. “Do they not mean the same thing?”
“In this context, no,” Moira said. “No, they do not.”
Perhaps Ragvald was even more subtle than Conleth had thought. Perhaps the wyrm had deliberately crushed him in the first round in order to build drama. Perhaps this time, things would be different.
Perhaps everyone would be distracted from this ridiculous competition by a passing flock of flying pigs.
