Eye of the Wizard: A Fantasy Adventure (18 page)

Romy swallowed, suddenly unable to enjoy the cheers from the crowd. This would not end well.

Chapter Eleven

The Skeletal Hand of Doom

Jamie pushed her way through the crowds, wafer thin and not even five feet tall, but driving forward like a plow, holding her shield before her. Moonclaw clanked across her back, and her vambraces and greaves glimmered despite the dust covering them. Some in the crowds raised eyebrows at her, this slight youth with short black hair, her sword almost as long as she was tall. Most did not spare her a second glance.
They think I'm a boy,
Jamie knew; her leggings, boots, and armor were squire garb.

She glimpsed the swordfights ahead, still mostly hidden behind the crowd. Knights in plate armor were slamming at each other with swords, their blows ringing and raising sparks. Other knights stood nearby, their armor dented, their faces sweaty; they must have fought already.

For a moment, cold doubt flooded Jamie's belly, and she swallowed. She had never fought a knight in plate armor. She was used to beating boys her age, mere squires wearing cumbersome chain mail, fighting with wooden training swords. That was how she fought at Fort Rosethorn. But here were
real
knights, burly men covered in impenetrable armor, their blades forged from steel. Jamie looked down at her old armor, random pieces that left most of her unprotected.
I look so puny in comparison,
she thought.

Then she tightened her lips.
But I have my father's blade.
Surely that counted for something. Father had been a great knight, and his sword still carried some of his spirit.
Father's soul will help my blade land true.

Swallowing her fear, Jamie elbowed her way closer to the ring where the knights fought. It was hard to see; the cheering crowds surrounded her, blocking her view, most a full foot taller than her. Worming and shoving her way forward, Jamie finally reached the ring and stood at the head of the crowd. There she studied the fight, lips scrunched.

The two knights before her were slamming their blades, raising cheers from the crowd. One knight wore white plate armor, a star on his helm, and bore the emblem of a charging boar upon his shield. The second knight wore black armor. His helmet was shaped like a vulture's head, complete with a curved beak, and a swooping vulture adorned his shield. The knights' plate armor covered every inch of them, sword-proof. Jamie saw many sword blows slamming into that armor, raising sparks, sometimes leaving scratches and dents, but not harming the men inside.

They barely know how to parry,
Jamie thought.
They just rely on their armor to protect them.
Could she use this to her advantage?

Finally the white knight grew tired and slow. The black knight's blows kept falling. A few moments more and the white knight fell, exhausted. The crowd went wild. The black knight waved to the crowd, then slammed his sword once more, for good measure, against the white knight's helm. The white knight moaned but could not rise. The fight was over.

As the crowds cheered and pounded their feet, singing praises to the victorious knight, Jamie chewed her lip, thinking.
I have no helmet, no breastplate, no gauntlets.
Her wooden shield would stop some blows, but wouldn't protect all of her, and would crack after too many hits.
But I have something these knights don't—speed.

The black knight roared to the crowd. "I have vanquished all the knights here today! None more dare fight me."

The crowd cheering, an old judge in a crimson cloak stepped into the ring. He held out a gold metal, and the crowd's cheers grew.

"I hereby declare," the gray-haired judge announced, "that Sir Veldor is champion of Queenpool's swordfights!"

Before he could place the medal around the black knight's neck, Jamie rushed into the ring.

"Wait!" she said.

The crowds fell silent.

Everyone stared at her.

Jamie felt her face flush with stage fright, and she raised her chin. "You haven't defeated
me
yet," she said to Sir Veldor, the black knight.

For a moment everyone just stared silently. Then they began to laugh.

"You?" Sir Veldor said. "You're not a knight. Be gone, pup. Return once you've grown a foot and bought a breastplate."

The crowds laughed harder, and Jamie felt rage filling her. She drew her sword, which was nearly as long as she was tall, and held it high. "Do you see this blade?" she demanded. "It belonged to my father, Sir Sam Thistle of Burrfield. Yes, I am small. No, I am not a knight. But I have the blood of knighthood in me. Fight me, Veldor, or all will know that you feared a fifteen-year-old girl."

The crowd oohed. A challenge—they liked that. Sir Veldor lifted his visor, revealing a leathery face and black mustache. He gave Jamie a hard look, spat, and slammed his visor shut.

"Let us see this blood of knighthood you speak of," he said. "I will spill it for all to see."

The judge backed away, and Jamie tossed aside her cloak. She remained before Veldor wearing only leggings, boots, and a tunic. Other than the vambraces on her forearms and the greaves on her shins, she owned no armor, not even a helmet. The black knight stepped toward her, covered in metal, towering over her. She stood under five feet; Veldor stood almost as tall as Scruff, each of his arms the size of her entire body. Jamie raised her shield, gulping, sudden fear flooding her.
Have I made a huge mistake?
The other knights were covered in plate armor; she would die of a single sword stroke. Was this suicide?

Before she could collect herself, Veldor rushed at her, swinging down his sword. There was no time for regrets now. Jamie raised her shield.

Veldor's blade slammed into the wooden shield, sending splinters flying. Jamie couldn't help but yelp in pain. Veldor was strong, and his blow against her shield nearly dislocated her shoulder. She had blocked sword blows before, but only from squires using wooden blades, not a burly champion knight. As Veldor slammed his blade down again, Jamie barely blocked the blow, and more splinters flew. Her shield wouldn't survive much more of this punishment. Fear flooded her.
Surely they won't let Veldor kill me,
she thought.
Would they?

Veldor's sword landed a third time, cracking the shield; Jamie saw the tip of the blade emerge near her face, missing her eye by an inch.
Now's my chance.
The blade was stuck in the shield. Jamie yanked her shield, tugging Veldor aside, then leaped up and swiped her sword.

Her blade clanked against Veldor's breastplate, sending trembles up Jamie's arm. It was the hardest blow she could deal, but it didn't even scratch Veldor's armor.
Damn.
Was there nothing she could do?

I can't do this,
she thought, tears stinging her eyes.
I was stupid to think I'm a fighter. I'm too small... just a runt.

Veldor thrust again, and Jamie raised her shield. It was the final straw. Her shield split in half, showering splinters. The crowd cheered, clapping, howling, and stamping their feet. "Veldor, Veldor!" they chanted.

Cursing, Jamie tossed her shattered shield aside. His blade flew. She parried. Sparks rose between the blades, and pain raced up Jamie's arms. Veldor towered over her in his black armor, his vulture helmet monstrous. Suddenly Jamie understood why Romy feared birds. She stood before this beast with nothing but old iron strapped onto her limbs; no shield, no breastplate no helmet. Jamie parried left and right, squinting. More sword blows fell, and it was all Jamie could do to check them. One blow passed her defenses and bit her shoulder, grazing the flesh, shedding blood.

Jamie knew she was going to die.

Not so soon!
whispered a voice in her head. Jamie panted, parrying those blows as fast as she could, her arms aching. She could not last much longer. Who had spoken? Was it Father's voice speaking in her mind?

Fight on your own terms—use your speed.

Whether it was Father or her subconscious speaking, it was sound advice. If Jamie wanted to live, she'd have to stop this game of thrust and parry and start tiring Veldor out. Luckily, Veldor had fought a dozen knights today, and had barely caught his breath since defeating the white knight.
He can't have much more energy.
If Jamie could just keep him moving long enough, sooner or later, he'd slow down.

She ran to the back of the stage.

The crowed booed, but Jamie did not care.
Let them call me a coward.
Veldor came racing toward her, and Jamie slipped between his legs, emerging behind him. She landed her sword on the back of his helmet.

This the crowd liked. Everyone cheered wildly. "Thistle, Thistle!" a few began to chant.

Grinning, Jamie leaped back as Veldor spun toward her. He swiped his weapon. Instead of parrying—her arms would not survive much more of that—Jamie leaped back. Veldor's blade cut through air.

Jamie moved like a mouse fighting an elephant. Wherever Veldor went, she leaped away, ran around him, and landed her sword on his back. Soon scratches appeared on the back of his helmet, and the blows to his head—while not cutting the metal—were no doubt giving him a whopping headache. The crowd was all chanting for her. "Thistle, Thistle!" they cried, and Jamie had never felt so elevated. It was wonderful. She, little Jamie of Burrfield, was going to beat a seasoned, champion knight! She had never felt such glory.

She slipped around Veldor's feet again, raised her sword, and was about to land it against his helmet.

Then something happened.

It happened so fast, Jamie could hardly believe it was real.
No. It couldn't be.
But it was. A skeleton's hand, nothing but bones, appeared out of the ground. It grabbed her ankle, and Jamie fell.

The crowd gasped.

Veldor's blade came down.

Jamie checked the blow, screaming in pain. That blow nearly knocked her arms out of their sockets. She scurried up and ran a few paces away, panting. Veldor followed, and she parried again. It was a moment before she regained her stride.

What was that? What had happened? Surely there was no such thing as skeletal hands emerging from the ground. She must have imagined it. Nobody seemed to notice anything other than her falling.

Jamie wanted this fight to end. She snarled, raced around Veldor, and slammed her sword. As he spun toward her, she ran again, emerging behind him. She prepared to land a mighty blow against his helmet, maybe mighty enough to knock him out.

The skeleton's hand appeared again.

It materialized out of the ground and grabbed her foot. She fell, and Veldor's sword came down. Jamie rolled, and the sword bit her arm. Jamie screamed. It wasn't a mortal wound, but enough to hurt and bleed.

The crowd was gasping and shouting. Jamie leaped to her feet and kept parrying. She would not survive much longer. She had to knock out Veldor. What was that hand? What evil warlock was doing this? She remembered the stories of Neev's Coven and the skeleton Dry Bones; could it be him?

She had no time to ponder. Veldor was after her, howling, his sword blows terrible. One hit her arm, denting her vambrace, nearly snapping her bone. Jamie ran back, then around Veldor again. She raised her blade.

Sure enough, the skeletal hand burst from the ground.

Jamie stepped on it, slamming her foot down with all her might. She felt finger bones shatter. The hand vanished.

Before Veldor could thrust his blade, she slammed her sword against the side of his head. Again. A third time. Veldor seemed dazed. He tried to swipe back, but his movements were slow, and she parried, then slammed her sword against his helmet. Again. She kicked him, and he fell.

He fell!

The crowd roared, a sound so loud, it nearly deafened Jamie. She was so weak, she could barely move, but she sucked in her breath and slammed her sword down onto Veldor's helmet. She slammed down again and again, Veldor moaning, until he lay still.

She nudged him with his foot.

He would not move.

The judge counted to three, then announced, "Thistle wins!"

Jamie had never heard cheering so loud. It flowed over her, spinning her head. The world seemed to swirl around her. She wanted to raise her arms to the crowd, but couldn't; they hurt too badly. Panting, she made do with a smile.

She sheathed her sword, and the judge placed the golden medal around her neck. As the crowd cheered, Jamie wanted to bask in her glory, to memorize this moment so that decades later, she could tell the story detail by detail. But she could not. She kept thinking about the skeletal hand.

The grobblers who killed her parents. The moldmen who attacked them. This skeleton underground.
Somehow they must be linked,
Jamie thought.

Somebody, or some
thing
, was out to get them. As the judge extolled her virtues to the multitudes, Jamie shivered.

Chapter Twelve

Dry Bones in Love

Dry Bones stood behind an alehouse, cradling his broken hand.

Ouch.

He had come so close to killing Jamie nicely and discreetly. Then she had stepped on his fingers. For such a diminutive girl, she was surprisingly strong. Two of his fingers had cracked and nearly snapped off.

Cloaked in black, Dry Bones knelt in the dirt, pulled out a spellbook, and began to leaf through it. He was not a great healer. Like all warlocks, he specialized in black magic; he could summon moldmen, grobblers, and the like with ease. When it came to white magic, such as healing, he was a novice. Most warlocks were, for healing spells were the opposite of their dark arts. It was long moments before he found the spell he needed. "Bone Mending", the page was titled.

"There we go," Dry Bones said. The spell was geared toward people with flesh and blood, but Dry Bones figured it would work just as well for a skeleton. He uttered the spell, and his finger bones trembled, flickered with white sparks, and sent warm waves across him, the way wine would when he could still drink it. Before his eyes (or at least, the empty sockets where his eyes once blinked), his finger bones healed.