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“I sense it is in good health. That is all. I do not pry into its mind, and it does not do so with mine.”
This was a strange statement to make about an unborn child, but before I could ask her any more questions, there was a flourish of trumpets and a herald stepped up to the front of the pavilion.
I glanced around. Nobles and knights in opulent attire sat and stood around us. Down in the tiered seats that encircled the arena below, the people had quieted. Most were looking up at the royal pavilion as the herald announced the tournament's commencement.
From down below, drums began to beat.
All eyes turned towards one of the heavy, iron-gated entrances to the arena which was slowly lifting.
Two men were led forth by a group of soldiers. Their gaunt countenances and tattered uniforms revealed them as prisoners of war. One was dressed in the gold and purple colors of Lyonesse and the other in the blue and silver armor of Tintagel.
I gripped the arms of my chair and stole a glance at Arthur. Was I really surprised he was going to use surrendered soldiers in such a way?
I could only hope one of the men would make it out today with his life. Perhaps it would be a simple duel. In which case, they would have a fifty-fifty fighting chance. Which was more than most had in the Blood Rise.
One of Arthur's soldiers stepped forward. He was carrying two swords. Looking between the two men, he lifted one of the swords, still sheathed, and passed it to the soldier from Tintagel. In its plain leather case, it looked like an ordinary blade.
Then, stepping up to the soldier from Lyonesse, he passed him the other sword.
My breath caught in my throat. Even from this distance, I recognized the scabbard that held Excalibur.
The prisoner of war from Lyonesse pulled Excalibur from the scabbard. I glimpsed metal so dark, it seemed to absorb the light around it. The hilt the soldier held twined around his hand in a pattern of vines with a red rose carved from a gleaming ruby at the top.
The soldier from Tintagel eyed the other sword his comrade carried a little enviously.
A shout came up from Arthur's men, and they quickly cleared the arena, leaving only the two prisoners of war behind.
For a moment, there was almost complete silence as the crowd's roar faded into an expectant hush.
The two prisoners stood looking up at us in the royal pavilion, their expressions wavering between defiance and confusion.
Silently, I wished them well, hoping their fates had not been sealed by my brother's cruel decree.
A howl broke the silence.
It had come from the other side of one of the gates.
As if drawn by an unseen force, the two captives moved to stand back-to-back with one another, forming a bond of strength against the unknown.
With a creak of hinges, four of the gates lining the perimeter of the arena began to creak open, the whine of rusty iron slicing through the hush.
The baying howls of wolves cut through the air.
But wolves like none I had ever seen. I leaned forward in my seat and felt Orcades doing the same beside me.
Once noble hunters of the wild, the wolves that prowled out of the gates had been reduced to specters of their former selves. They had been starved. Their fur clung to them in gaunt patches. Skeletal and emaciated, they still moved with an eerie, sinuous grace, their eyes gleaming with a manic fervor as they looked upon the two men and saw fresh meat.
Flecks of froth glistened at their slavering maws. A pungent stench of rot hung heavy in the air, and I caught some of the people in the stands below covering their mouths and noses.
I counted quickly. There were at least a dozen wolves.
Then, as if the wolves were not enough, a whistling sound filled the air as an arrow soared overhead.
The two prisoners below, who had remained standing back-to-back, let out shouts of panic and moved apart, running swiftly in opposite directions.
The arrow landed harmlessly in the sand, but that was all it took.
The men’s solidarity was broken. They were on their own.
