A HENRY STORY 2: Trials Of The Fallen Prince

XXIII. Crux

"At last, we find ourselves at this momentous event."

The cacophony of the audience drowned out Dustfur's voice; Achilles strained to make out words. He took a moment to gather himself, planting his feet firmly in the sand and trying to quell the vertigo that threatened to overwhelm him. His hand sought the hilt of his blade, securely fastened to his back. Perhaps he should have approached Longclaw to delay the battle. Perhaps he should—

"On this very day, we witness the greatest champion to ever step foot in any arena, renowned across lands and drawing such a massive crowd that we can barely contain them!" Dustfur laughed, and the audience joined in. "Today, he may claim his fiftieth consecutive victory in our esteemed establishment!"

Perceiving the frenzied cheers only through a haze of mist, he pondered whether it was his own control over his filters or the fever that had greeted him that morning, numbing his senses. You may forget about that battle; tell the bastard—I mean Longclaw—to reschedule. It cannot be that much of a hassle for him. But under no circumstances are you fighting in this state.

Please, as though a minor fever could ever incapacitate him. Achilles made an effort to reignite the urgent craving for action—to find something to do rather than lying around and wasting away—that had plagued him before, but now he couldn't help but think that lying down seemed like a much more appealing option than being here. Battling . . . now.

Swallowing hard, he contemplated whether it was a mistake to be here now. His hand brushed against the tight bandage wrapped around his left hand, then traveled up to the one on his forearm. The injury was recent, merely a few days old, and far from healed.

"And thus, let us give a resounding welcome to the Great Achilles!"

Gripping the hilt of his sword, Achilles automatically staggered into the blinding light of the braziers, where he was greeted by a resounding cacophony of cheers. But . . . something was amiss. With a furrowed brow, he searched for Longclaw among the spectators. Since when was the reigning champion called in before their opponent? The gnawer arenas adhered only to a handful of rules . . . Yet in all his fifty battles, he had never once seen this rule broken. But the arena master was out of sight, and so he had no one to ask.

Well, it was not like it held much significance in the long run.

Keep your head up, back straight, and feet firmly grounded on the floor; if needed, dig in your toes to stay rooted, it automatically replayed in his head as it did before every battle.

He took a deep breath, disregarding the hotness of his dry skin, and straightened out his mask, then drew his sword and raised it above his head; the blade glistened red in the flickering fire of the braziers that illuminated the arena.

It was by far not as satisfying as it had been at first—listening to the cheers of the audience—but it still enraptured him. If only his blade would not feel cold and heavy and his forehead would not already be pearling with sweat . . . In and out, he ordered himself to breathe calmly and lowered his blade, eye on Dustfur.

Achilles knew this was his incentive. Kismet had not seen him leave—she would have never let him leave in this state—so she could not be watching.

So she could not intervene.

He had long made up his mind; this would be it—his fiftieth battle, his fiftieth chance to die. He willed his parched lips to form a smile.

This time, he would have the strength to take it.

"And now—" Dustfur exclaimed. "We are beyond elated to present to you—!"

Achilles' attention was fixed on the other exit until he was momentarily startled by a sudden movement overhead, casting a twisted shadow on the tall ceiling. He stood frozen in place, utterly immobile, because he recognized that sound. A sound that painted a stark image in his mind, vivid unlike any other. But . . . this was not a sound that belonged here.