The Dragon Games

Bidding

We funnelled through the castle halls, passing the freestanding armour of famous dragon riders, as distant shouts bled through the stone walls, growing louder with every step. 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 waited 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 their bid, then you decide which 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, and Tudor endure.

I couldn't help but cringe at that. While the other squads' motto highlighted their strengths, 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?"

"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, shattering the floor tiles beneath him, and his opponent's foot was quick to follow. One kick to throw the sword out of his hand, and another to flatten his throat. The boy's face turned, red, then white, then purple, then he finally gave up, frantically tapping the ground.

Grinning, the victor thrust his fist in the air and shouted, "No mercy!"

Two banners raised for the victor, squad Tudor and Windsor. The victor made puppy eyes at the Balthasars, as if they might change their mind if he looked desperate enough. Judging by the jewelry snuck on to everyone's uniforms, the mess hall was unanimously rich.

They wore necklaces, broaches, pendants, earrings ... basically enough sparkly crap on a few hundred kids to buy the burrow a thousand times over. 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 had moved to the front of the weapons line. To my dismay, rows of alien equipment laid on the table. My days of rusty shanks were long gone, traded for stylish new Court inventions that were foreign to my eye.

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

"Any suggestions?" I asked the knight.

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

"Hurry up!" someone at the back of the line hollered. I grabbed the simplest-looking sword, but before I could leave, the knight stepped in front of my path. "Jacket off. No armor allowed."

"I'm not wearing any." I splayed my arms out like a T. "You can check 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, every other pledge had already removed their jacket.

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

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 tables. Grads and rookies noticed my tattoo, nudging their friends. It was impossible 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 went around the room.

My opponent, on the other hand, was unamused as he entered the fighting zone, striding forward with his eyes locked on my face. 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.

My 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 Smalls of the Heredon Shores!" He beat his brass knuckles against his sword, punctuating each title with a loud clink!

All eyes turned to me.

"Uh," I said. "I'm Raven." They could see my tattoo; hiding my identity was useless. "Raven Black."

It was so quiet, I could hear the grads breathing in the tables closest to me.

"Fight on zero, pledges!" a knight said. "Four!"

I fumbled my sword into what I assumed was the right position, but no matter how many buttons I smacked, the blades refused to retract. Now I wasn't holding a sword; I was holding a wonky starfish trident.

"Three!"

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

"Tw–"

Tobias roared. I looked up with a start to find him charging forward like a raging bull. For a split second, I forgot everything I had ever learned about combat, pure panic making my mind go blank.

Then I thought fuck it and dropped the sword, using my newly freed hand to flick two fingers and throw a whip of divine at his ankle. As Tobias went tumbling, I crossed the distance between us, swooping up one of the shattered floor tiles along the way.

Tobias rolled to a hard stop on his side, his sword knocked from his hand. He made out to grab it, but I kicked it aside and pressed my makeshift blade against the hollow of his throat.

"Yield," I said.

He stared at me in shock, his chest heaving up and down. From beginning to end, the fight lasted maybe five seconds, max.

I added a little more pressure, drawing a bead of blood. "Yield."

He yielded.

"Match!" the knight declared.