Modina waited with the girls, prepared to face what could be their last sunrise. The boys stood only a few feet from her with Magnus and Myron. The lot of them formed a straight line, uniformly standing with their arms folded across their chests-all eyes on Degan.
Mawyndule appeared relaxed as he sat in his chair, his legs outstretched and crossed, his eyes closed as if sleeping. The rest of the elves milled about in small groups, speaking in hushed, reverent tones. Arista guessed this was a sacred religious event for them. For those in her party, it was just terrifying.
She turned when she heard Monsignor Merton say, “I know you have a good reason.” At first, she thought he was speaking to her, but when she saw him, his eyes were looking up. “But you have to understand I’m but the ignorant fool you made. I don’t mean that as an insult, of course. Perish the thought. Who am I to pass judgment on your creation? Still, I hope you have enjoyed our talks. I am entertaining at least, aren’t I, Lord? You wouldn’t want to lose that, would you? Many of us are entertaining and it would be a shame if we disappeared altogether. Have you considered how you might miss us?” He paused as if listening, then nodded.
“What did he say?” Arista asked.
Merton looked up, startled. “Oh? What he always says.”
She waited, but the monsignor never explained further.
The drums grew louder, the rhythm faster. The sky began to lighten and birds, newly returned to the north, began to sing. The faces of the men and elves grew more serious as the priest of Ferrol entered the ring with a thurible burning Agarwood incense. He began singing softly in elvish.
Gaunt placed a hand to his chest, rubbed his shirt, and whispered to himself. Arista cringed and Hadrian said something sharply but quietly and Gaunt pulled his hand away. Arista glanced at Mawyndule and suspected the damage was done. The old elf narrowed his gaze at his opponent.
Mawyndule rose from his seat and walked toward Gaunt. He glanced to the eastern horizon. “Not long now,” he said. “I just wanted to wish you good luck.”
The once Patriarch held out his hand. Gaunt looked at it hesitantly but reached out to shake. Mawyndule was quick and nimble and he tore Gaunt’s collar wide, revealing the medallion hanging there. He staggered backward as Hadrian and Royce quickly pulled Gaunt away. Mawyndule sneered and glanced at Arista, then Hadrian, and lastly Myron. He looked about quickly, nervously.
“Not long now,” Royce reminded him. “And how will you fare when your magic is useless?”
Mawyndule smiled and with clenched teeth he began to laugh.
“ Muer wir ahran dulwyer! ” Mawyndule shouted suddenly. All the elves turned to face him. Everyone else looked at Myron.
“He evokes the Right of Champion,” Myron said.
“What does that mean?” Royce asked.
“It means he asks for someone else to fight in his stead.”
“Can he do that?” Arista asked.
“Yes,” Myron replied. “Remember the inscription on the horn: Should champion be called to fight evoked is the Hand of Ferrol, Which protects the championed from all, and champion from all-save one-from peril.
“If the champion wins, Mawyndule will be king.”
“ Byrinith con duylar ben lar Irawondona! ” Mawyndule shouted and there was a loud murmur among the elves as they all turned to face the elven lord.
“Oh damn,” Hadrian said. “He had to pick the big guy. I’m pretty sure he knows how to fight.”
Lord Irawondona stepped forward in his shimmering armor. He said something that none of them could hear. Mawyndule replied by nodding and Lord Irawondona raised his hands and shouted, “ Duylar e finis dan iskabareth ben Mawyndule! ”
“He just accepted,” Myron reported.
Gaunt, who had been shaking his head, erupted, “I’m not fighting him. I’m supposed to fight the old guy, not this guy.”
“Myron.” Arista spun the monk to face her. “Can Gaunt do the same? Can he pick a champion?”
“Ah-yes. I believe so. It would only make sense, as the entire competition is designed for a fair contest between the opponents.”
She watched Lord Irawondona remove his cloak. The elf looked imposing even from across the field. “Hadrian is the only one who has any chance of winning. Name him your champion. Myron, tell Gaunt the words he needs to say.”
“They weren’t on the horn.”
“You just heard him,” Royce reminded him. “Just repeat what you heard Mawyndule say, and quickly.”
“Oh, right. Muer wir ahran dulwyer,” Myron said.
“Degan, say it! Say it loud!”
“ Muer wir- ah- ahran- ah-” Gaunt stumbled and hesitated.
“ Dulwyer,” Myron whispered.
“ Dulwyer! ” Gaunt shouted.
The heads of the elves turned.
“Now the next line and substitute my name for Irawondona,” Hadrian said.
Myron fed him the words and Gaunt recited them. The elves looked confused for a moment, until Gaunt pointed at Hadrian. Myron gave Hadrian the next line and Arista stood shaking as she heard him recite it aloud, accepting the role of Gaunt’s champion.
“Degan,” she said, “give Hadrian the medallion back.”
“But he said-”
“I know what he said, and he’ll let you have it after the fight, but right now he needs all the help he can get. Give it to him now!” Degan tore the chain off his neck and handed it to her.
“Boys!” Hadrian shouted. “Fetch me that bundle near my blanket and the shield!”
The four boys sprinted down the slope to the camp.
“You can beat him, can’t you?” Arista asked while slipping the chain over his head. She was trembling. “You will beat him for me, won’t you? You can’t leave me like Emery and Hilfred. You know I couldn’t take that, right? You know that-you have to win.”
“For you? Anything,” he said, and kissed her hard, pulling her to him.
The boys returned and threw open the bundle, revealing the brilliant armor of Jerish Grelad. “Help me on with this,” Hadrian said, and everyone, including Degan and Myron, looked for ways to assist.
An elf appeared before them, holding one of the strange halberd weapons they had seen images of in Percepliquis. He held it out to Hadrian.
“You know how to use this?” Arista asked.
“Never touched one before.”
“Something tells me he has,” she said as across the field Lord Irawondona lifted his own halberd with both hands spread apart, holding it like a double-bladed quarterstaff. He spun it with remarkable speed such that the blades hummed.
“Yeah, I think you’re right.”
Hadrian took a breath and turned to her. Their eyes met just at the moment the sun broke over the trees and shone on their faces. Hadrian looked beautiful, glimmering in his golden armor. He appeared like an ancient god reborn onto the world of man.
The priest of Ferrol shouted something and neither needed Myron to translate.
It was time.
Arista found it hard to breathe and her legs grew weak as she watched Hadrian enter the ring of torches. He stepped to the center and waited, planting his feet in the packed snow and shifting his grip on the strange weapon.
She looked at Mawyndule and saw he was no longer smiling; his face showed concern as Irawondona entered the ring. The blue torches flared with his passing and the elven lord strode about the space casually, confidently.
“Hadrian’s the best in the world, Arista,” Mauvin whispered to her. “Better than any Pickering, better than Braga, better than-”
“Better than an elven lord?” she asked sharply. “He’s probably played with that weapon since he was a child-some fifteen hundred years ago!”