The Dragon Games

Bidding

 As we funneled through the castle halls, passing the freestanding armor of famous dragon riders, distant shouts bled through the stone walls, growing louder with every stride.

When we entered the mess hall, the shouts became deafening. Four tables pressed against the fifty-foot-high stone walls.

Each was packed with roaring grads and rookies, jumping on the seats, beating their fists in the air. In the center of the chaos, two pledges were going at it, their swords clashing in bright bursts of sparks.

The other pledges stood in line to select a weapon, watching the fight with tense shoulders and locked jaws. Some removed their jackets and stretched, shadowing sparring moves.

"The rules are simple!" A knight marched up and down the line, snapping at anyone who did not pay attention. "You get one match, one round, one opponent! Based on your performance, the squads will decide whether or not to offer bids, then you decide which bid to accept!"

A sea of heads swiveled toward the four tables at the front of the mess hall, and I followed, a beat late. Each table's banner pictured a different house, with their motto written beneath it:

Balthasar conquer

Windsor outwit

Steward defend

Tudor endure

While the other squads' motto highlighted their strengths, it seemed Tudor picked theirs preparing for failure.

"Remember, pledges, avoid the big M's!" the knight shouted. "Murder and maiming are highly discouraged!"

Discouraged, but not outright banned? Perhaps I would feel at home, after all.

The knight abruptly turned on his heel, skewering us with a fierce glare. "And above all, what happens if no squad offers you a bid?"

My stomach jolted. That was an option? If I picked Tudor, and they didn't pick me, would that mean I was done? Parlay revoked, just like that?

"I will go home at once, no if, ands, or buts!" The pledges chorused, hundreds of voices melding into one. A gasp went around the tables.

One of the fighting pledges used the Divine to propel himself over his opponent's head. It was a stylish and impractical move, and with one blunt kick, his opponent knocked him out of the air.

His back hit the ground with a boom, and the opponent's boot was quick to follow. One kick to throw the sword out of his hand, and another to rest upon his throat.

Then the victor thrust his fists in the air and shouted, "No mercy!"

Two banners raised for the victor, squad Tudor and squad Windsor. The victor made puppy eyes at the Balthasars, as if they would change their mind if he looked pathetic enough. They did not, so he slunk to the Windsor table.

Judging by the jewelry snuck onto the grads' and rookies' uniforms – necklaces, broaches, and earrings; basically, enough sparkly crap to fund my living a thousand times over – the whole mess hall was unanimously rich, but Balthasar was on another level, the giants among giants, the seat everyone wanted but few were allowed.

Someone nudged my shoulder, and I realized I was at the front of the weapons line. To my dismay, rows of alien equipment lay on the table, my days of rusty shanks long gone, traded for new-fangled court inventions.

Forget naming these new weapons, I couldn't tell which part was for holding and which did the killing.

"Any suggestions?" I asked the knight.

"Any suggestions?" the knight said with a snort. "Good one."

"Next pledge!" someone boomed.

I grabbed the simplest-looking weapon, but before I could leave, the knight stepped in front of my path. "Jacket off. No armor allowed."

"I have no weapons underneath." I splayed my arms out to prove my point. "You can check me yourself."

"Doesn't matter. Jacket off or forfeit your spot."

I hesitated, trying to think of an argument and running blank. But I wasn't the only one who received the request. Looking around, almost every other pledge had already removed their jacket.

"It cowshit, I know," the knight said. "How is leather going to protect anyone from a sword? Between you and me, it's to ferret out that bloody raider. Make sure an innocent squad doesn't accidentally..."

His voice died out as I shucked off my jacket, revealing my tattoo in its full glory. Then his face flushed, anger sparking in his eyes. "You little –"

I didn't stick around to hear the rest. As I crossed the mess hall, murmurs swept across the table. Grads and rookies noticed my tattoo, nudging their friends. It was hard to miss, sitting right in the middle of my neck.

As I waited for my opponent, I pretended not to notice their stares, redirecting my attention to my new weapon. I ran my hand along the hilt, and two blades sprung out, nearly impaling my throat. I reeled back in the nick of time, but not before half the mess hall saw, and a snicker of laughter went around the room.

My opponent, on the other hand, was unamused as he entered the fighting zone, striding forward with purpose. Though he was broad-shouldered and tall, he handled his sword with lethal grace, his blade spinning between his hands in a sliver blur.

"Announce yourself for the squads," a knight said.

Her opponent's back straightened like a rod and his hand shot to his forehead in a formal military salute. "Tobias Smalls, third of my name, firstborn son and heir to Viscount Faraway of the Heredon Shores!"

He beat his brass knuckles against his sword, punctuating each title with a loud clink!

All eyes turned to me.

"I'm Regan," I said. They could see my tattoo; there was no point hiding my identity. "Regan Black."

The squads stared at me, clearly expecting more.

I just stood in place, trying not to grimace. 

More stares.

"Fight on zero, pledges!" a knight said. There was a waiver to his voice as if he was holding back a laugh. "Three!"

I fumbled my sword into what I assumed was the right position, repeatedly smacking the button to get the blades to retract. No luck. Now I wasn't holding a sword; I was holding a wonky starfish trident.

"Two!"

"C'mon," I hissed, smacking the button harder. "Retract, you foppish piece of crap."

"One–"

Tobias lunged. I raised my sword, fighting the confines of my jacket every inch of the way. I barely blocked Tobias's blade in time, the blow rattling my whole arm. With his second strike, he knocked the sword out of my hand.

Then he hooked his foot behind hers, and my back hit the floor. Tobias raised his sword, lifting it over his head with both hands and swung down, aiming for my heart. An inch away, his sword froze, hitting an invisible wall.

Tobias startled, his stare jerking to my face. I grinned, black pooling into my eyes. Gritting his teeth, Tobias leaned into his sword, putting his whole body weight behind the steel. But it was like pushing a mountain for all his sword moved.

He was so focused on pushing me back, that he did not notice my Divine crawl up the length of his sword, wrapping around his brass knuckles.

Then the sword inched in the opposite direction, away from me and toward Tobias. His arm shook and the veins in his muscles bulged, but he could not reclaim control of his hand. As I stood, Tobias was pushed to his knees.

He tried to kick me, but I caught his knee with the Divine and shoved it back down. I sent one last push of Divine, forcing Tobias to hold his sword against his own throat.

"Match!" the knight declared.