The Inquisition (Summoner, #2)(40)
‘Thanks for the ride. I’ll see you in there,’ Fletcher said. ‘Sorry I was such poor company.’
Lovett tutted and waved him away.
‘Don’t worry about it.’
He hurried through the double doors to find the atrium silent as a grave, his footsteps echoing in the empty space. It was strange, to be back. It had been a year, the longest year of his life, but it felt like only yesterday he had walked these halls. Somehow, he felt more at home at Vocans than he had back in Pelt.
Funnily enough, having both Ignatius and Athena on his shoulders barely hampered him, though Athena took the opportunity to stretch her wings and fluttered into the air, gliding above and keeping watch for potential dangers. Ignatius yawned at her, then wrapped himself more closely around Fletcher’s neck, as if to let her know that she was wasting her time.
Soon Fletcher was pacing down the stairs and along the corridor of cells. He could hear the roar of the crowd reverberating along the cold stone walls, rising and falling as a battle for supremacy was waged on the sands of the arena. As he neared the entrance, Fletcher realised it must be the final round, for the cells were empty, with all the contestants but the two in the arena having been knocked out of the Tournament.
His entrance went unnoticed by the spectators, so focused were they on the events below them. Nobles, generals and servants alike added their voices to the chorus, yet now Fletcher could make out one name being chanted.
‘Didric! Didric!’
In the sweltering heat of the arena, two figures whirled around each other on the sand, jabbing and parrying as they sought an opening. There seemed to be no demons present, the rules of the final round set up as a trial by combat, just as Fletcher’s second round with Malik had been in his own Tournament.
Didric was armed with a long, thin rapier on a basket hilt, designed for fencing rather than killing orcs. His blond hair was plastered across his head as he sweated in the sweltering heat of the arena, and a stain of dried blood crusted his lips and chin, the remains of a nosebleed recently staunched.
His scarred face grinned in a savage rictus at his opponent, the once flabby body now lean and hard, extending and rescinding with the practised ease of a trained swordsman.
The other combatant was clearly a dwarf, with a long wave of red hair that lashed the air as they dodged and countered, one hand clutching a spiked bangle as a knuckleduster for striking and parrying, the other wielding a short, wedge-shaped blade on a carved bone handle that Fletcher recognised as a seax.
The dwarf took a few steps back against a sudden flurry of blows from Didric, then lashed out with a foot to send a spray of sand into his face. As Didric spun away, pawing at his eyes, the dwarf took the opportunity to dodge sideways into open space, for they had been pressed up against the wall of the arena.
Fletcher was surprised to see the beardless chin of a female dwarf, her eyes as green as Othello’s, with a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her button nose. She wore no veil as other dwarven females did, but he recognised the spiked bangle in her hand, a torq, the female equivalent of the dwarf male’s tomahawk.
‘Fletcher, down here,’ Othello shouted, and Fletcher saw him waving, a few steps down.
Fletcher made his way to Othello’s side and took a seat, never taking his eyes off the two fighters as Didric closed in once again, spitting words under his breath. Fletcher could not hear what they were, but he could tell from the way the girl’s eyes widened that they were offensive.
‘What’s her name again?’ Fletcher asked, as the girl parried another blow with her torq and swept her seax at Didric’s legs, forcing him to leap awkwardly over her blade.
‘Her name is Cress. Should have won this contest already – Didric wasn’t trained to fence a dual-wielding fighter. See his nose? She got him in the face with her torq, but Rook deemed it a non-killing blow. Typical.’ Othello pointed at the black-clad judge in the corner, his eyes glittering with anger as Cress’s seax slit the cloth of Didric’s uniform at the neck, the flesh beneath untouched thanks to the barrier spell.
‘Come on,’ Othello bellowed, his voice lost in the crowd as they booed Didric’s poor defence. ‘A neck blow is fatal!’
Rook shook his head, pursing his lips. Despite the obvious support for Didric from the almost entirely human crowd, several booed his decision. Noticing the lack of dwarves present, Fletcher nudged Othello.
‘Where’s Atilla? In the infirmary?’
‘No,’ Othello replied. ‘He and Cress … let’s just say they don’t get on. After he lost to Didric he stormed out.’
Below, Cress swept at Didric’s stomach, forcing him to hunch over to avoid it. As he did so, her torq came thrumming through the air, leaving spiked indents in his face and producing a resounding crack that Fletcher heard even over the screams from the crowd. Didric dropped like a stone, spread-eagled on the floor. Even so, Rook gave it a full ten seconds before finally nodding his head, to a smattering of applause from those around him.
‘Cress wins the tournament!’ he said, clapping twice before letting his hands drop to his side. He leaped into the arena as Didric regained consciousness, and helped the woozy boy to his feet. Cress stood proudly, wiping her brow, seemingly unconcerned by the lack of celebration around her.
Clearly, the attacks from the Anvils had done their work. The anti-dwarven sentiment seemed worse than when Fletcher had first arrived at Vocans. Most of the crowd were already dispersing, disappointed that their champion had lost the battle. Othello shook his head as the room began to empty. It was a poor celebration of a well-earned victory.