survey the enclosure.
He opened his visor, thanking Saradomin for the wind that blew against his sweat-drenched face. He watched as Lord Hyett batted a man aside, still with his dented red shield. As the man fell, Theodore staggered forward to his aid while about him the four Varrock knights confronted five opponents.
The Boar had his back to him, yet somehow the knight turned in time to avoid a wild slash that would have smashed against the back of his head. Unbalanced again, Theodore staggered from exhaustion, drinking in great gulps of air, his visor still wide open. He stumbled to one side, crashing against one of the great wooden wheels used to divide the ground in the enclosure.
On the man came. Even now, the giant still possessed the strength to run and thrust. He was wielding the wooden mace which Theodore had only just avoided a moment before.
“You are mine, Falador,” Lord Hyett gritted. “You are mine.”
He swung the mace as Theodore collapsed, sliding backward alongside the wheel. His back throbbed with pain. He desperately attempted to parry, but the tip of the heavy sword went agonisingly wide.
Still, he kept himself out of the Boar’s reach.
“Open your visor, Lord Hyett,” he challenged, not entirely knowing why he did so. “Let me look you in the face.” Perhaps he could goad the man into making a mistake.
There was no reply, and Theodore had suspected he would be too canny to give in to such an obvious tactic. Behind him, on the opposite side of the wheel, a man screamed as the sound of armour crashing to the floor was drowned out by cheering shouts.
The Boar roared as he charged in, his red shield held before him in his left hand, the mace raised overhead in his right.
The squire leapt forward, hoping to catch his foe by surprise. His foot lashed out, connecting perfectly with Lord Hyett’s left ankle. Something crunched as Theodore’s foot came away.
The Boar screamed.
He tottered forward, the mace wavering as he fell.
And at the same time, Theodore thrust his sharpened blade upward, both hands driving the sword tip into the breastplate of his enemy.
The blade pierced the metal and sheered through the flesh beneath. Theodore felt the familiar sensations of horror and fascination as his blade struck home-the soft flesh, the sinewy muscle, and the hard but brittle bone beneath. The sword glanced upward as it ricocheted off the Boar’s breastbone and deeper into his body.
Red blood pumped from his wound as the immense man fell atop Theodore, yelling in pain.
The squire took a delicious elation in the man’s screams. He knew it was wrong to do so-that Saradomin as the god of peace would condemn him-but today he didn’t care. He had beaten an enemy who had come to kill by treachery. Lord Hyett was nothing but a murderer.
Theodore stood, breathing heavily, aware that the Boar was gravely injured.
The crowd was silent. No one had beaten this man in a melee for at least a decade. Looking behind him, over the wheel, he saw that two of his own men still stood, a single Varrock knight between them who sensibly yielded rather than face them both.
Labouring with the effort, Theodore pulled the blade out in a single movement, trying hard to block out Lord Hyett’s groans. Then he held the red sword up, and as he did so the crowd roared. He swayed uncertainly as his name echoed around the bailey, his vision blurred, his mouth parched and his heart thundering.
“Do you hear that, Lord Hyett? It is my name they cry now. Mine. Your subterfuge and trickery have failed.” He lowered the sword, and stared at it. “Normally, it is not the way of my order to take a fallen foe’s property, and had you fought with honour I would not do so. But today I shall.”
Theodore raised his voice as he staggered backward from the fallen knight. Already marshals and stewards were entering the enclosure to attend to those who had been injured and to offer what aid they could-a certain sign the contest was ended.
“By the right of victor, in all the traditions of Varrock and her long history,” the squire announced loudly, “I claim my right to disarm you. Your armour is mine. As is your blade!” He raised the sword into the air again and the crowd responded, shouting even louder.
Theodore allowed himself to be helped from the enclosure by the stewards. He insisted that they first aided those who had fallen, and made sure he was the last of his men to leave the arena. Then he found his way to Philip, the man who had fallen under the repeated blows of the Boar.
When the man’s visor was pulled back, Theodore saw that his face was caked in blood.
“Philip?” he said. “Can you hear me?”
Incredibly the man smiled and nodded.
“It looks far worse that it is,” he said weakly.
“We won, Philip. And without you I would have fallen. Thank you.”
“But the Boar? What happened to him?”
One of the stewards shook his head.
“His is the worst wound here today,” the fellow said, a hint of awe tingeing his words. “Squire Theodore may have killed him.”
“Oh,” Philip said. “Good.” His eyes found Theodore’s. “His was no tourney blade, sir. He came out here to kill.”
“I know, Philip. I took it from him, and made sure he knew it.”
Afterwards, with the cheers of the crowd ringing in his ears, he found his way to a small tent set aside for the fighting knights, where Hamel poured cool water over his head and helped him remove his armour. Somewhere outside, members of the crowd laughed, and he heard the spectators daring the jester Gideon to run along a rope.
Then Theodore slumped in his seat, exhausted, and without intending to do so, he fell asleep.
When he awoke Hamel was still there. Outside the sound of trumpets was blaring and the crowd had fallen silent.
“The King has entered the box, sir,” Hamel explained as he finished bandaging Theodore’s wounds and applying salve to his bruised flesh. “How is your back, sir?”
“It is numb,” Theodore muttered. All of him was numb, and suddenly cold. The signs of fatigue. He wrapped his arms around his body and shivered.
“Drink this, sir,” the boy said, holding out a cup. “It is a beef soup. It should help you recover your strength.”
Theodore did as he was asked. He was too tired to even think.
But after what seemed like hours he stood and dressed himself in his white tunic with the four-pointed star of Saradomin stitched into its chest in silver thread. Hamel guided him from the tent, escorting him to the King’s box. As he made his way up the wooden steps, the crowd erupted in cheers, and he caught sight of Lady Anne.
She gave him a long look and smiled-not the sarcastic smile she so often teased him with, but something that Theodore thought was more akin to admiration, supplication almost. Very deliberately she dropped her handkerchief in a gesture of surrender.
Then the spectators closed in on him, and this time it was Castimir who rescued him. There were too many hands to shake and questions to be answered, and Theodore was too tired to do so. The wizard forced his way through the press and led him to a seat a healthy distance from the admiring courtiers.
“Thank you, Castimir,” he said. “If I fall asleep, nudge me.”
The wizard smiled as Theodore closed his eyes, content to listen to the world around him rather than participate in it. Even Kara and the mystery of her whereabouts did not agitate him for now, for he was simply too
