Page 107
Agnar appears at my elbow. “See something useful?”
“Yes.” I whisper so he has to move closer to hear and I can drink in the sunshine-scent of his hair. “The locks aren’t just mechanical.”
He squints at them. “What are they?”
I watch another one adjust its coils. “Magical creatures known as Guardians. They’re alive.”
“Can you work with that?”
“I can do this.” My certainty surprises me. “They’ll listen to me.”
Agnar’s eyebrows lift. “The magic snakes?”
“They’re not snakes.” I tear my eyes away from the case to look at him. “They’re magical creatures. And yes, they’ll listen to me.”
Because whatever resides in the Everhand shouldn’t be suffering. Shouldn’t be caged. And if no one else is going to free it, then I will.
And hopefully save my nation at the same time.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Esme
The tournament runs for five days before the final championship bout. Agnar wins his first match in under three minutes. The second takes longer, his opponent managing to land a hit before Agnar drives a sword through the man’s shoulder and forces a yield. By day three, people start to notice him.
I always observe from the squire section with my cap pulled low, trying to stop anxiety from flooding me at the sight of Agnar in peril.
A certain rhythm directs the tourney. I put Agnar’s armor on in the competitors’ quarters while other squires do the same for their fighters. By day three, we have our own tent.
Fights run late morning to early evening. Agnar fights every day, with breaks between bouts. After dark, we “walk” in the courtyard, scoping it out, eyeing the guards at their stations, and hunting for ways to sneak in and out undetected.
While Agnar fights, I find my place in the squire section of the stands, close enough to reach him if anything goes wrong.
The arena is harsh in its symmetry. Painted lines form the four squares, and workers rake the black sand smooth after every fight. They mix the bloodied sand with the rest, using the black color to mask its presence. Above each square, enchanted banners ripple without wind, displaying the numbers of whichever fighters currently occupy the ring.
Agnar drew number eighty-six.
The tourney is controlled chaos, but chaos all the same.
And through it all, Agnar fights like he’s inevitable.
I should focus on the Everhand, on our plan. The best course of action dictates I spend these hours scouting possible places to hide, studying the guardian creatures, and mapping out our theft. Instead, I watch him. I can’t help myself. I’ve seen him fight before. He killed those bandits right in front of me, one after the other, without breaking a sweat.
This is different. Here, Agnar is in his element, doing what he was trained for, and there’s a gory artistry to it. He doesn’t waste motion. By the time his opponent commits to an attack, Agnar is already moving to exploit the opening, his sword sliding between ribs, behind knees, or across throats with surgical precision.
But it’s more than technique.
In the fourth match, his opponent tries to overwhelm him with raw power by summoning massive earth constructs that rise from the arena floor. The crowd gasps. Agnar slips through the barriers like water. Then he’s inside the man’s guard, sword at his throat, before anyone can track how he got there. Blood trickles down the man’s neck before he can throw his hands up in surrender.
Agnar accepts the surrender and lowers the sword, but I can see the shake in his arm. He almost completed the killing blow. As I clap uproariously along with the rest of the crowd, I wonder how much control it takes Agnar to stop himself from slaughtering every one of his opponents.
On the afternoon of the fourth day, Agnar faces his seventh opponent, a gray-haired man who moves like someone half his age. His armor shows years of repair, indicating extensive use.
The announcer’s voice booms across the stands. “Garrett Stone of the Free Holds versus Henrik the Stormbreaker, five-time champion of the western circuit!”
Five times. That’s not luck. That’s skill and experience.
My chest tightens as the match begins.
