The Knight and the Moth (The Stonewater Kingdom, #1)(56)

And then Rory was upon him.

He was ruthless. Unearthly in speed, in vehemence. Like he wanted, needed, to unbridle himself. I felt the strikes of his sword in my flesh and the bones beneath, a shocking reverberation, like when my chisel broke through stone.

Swords weren’t the only thing they wielded—their armor was its own kind of weapon. Rory’s opponent struck him in the shoulder, the jaw, with his gauntlet. The next time he tried, Rory caught both his forearms, denying him leverage—only to be hit on the chin by his opponent’s helmet.

Rory stumbled, and my heart kicked. He shook his head, steadied himself, then, with another lazy tilt of his long body—

He sprang forward.

His shoulder collided with his opponent’s breastplate, and his arms wrapped around to catch the man behind his thighs. Their feet dragged through the yard, his opponent landing blow after blow along Rory’s shoulders and back. I could see his legs trembling, hear the hot sound of his breaths, his torrid gasps, as he held on to his opponent’s legs. Rory kept pushing, kept pressing up—

Until he’d slammed the both of them down onto dirt.

Cheers erupted around me. I barely heard them. I was transfixed.

Swords abandoned, the two of them rolled, laying elbows, fists, into one another, armor screeching its discontent. I hadn’t seen knights fight before. Never seen their armor, their weapons, as anything but ornaments. I hadn’t realized so much of combat happened like this. On the ground, in the dirt.

Rory came up on top, trapping his opponent with his abdomen, his legs, his crushing pelvis. Once more he leaned forward, putting his weight into his arm, laying it like an iron bar over the other man’s neck. He was dealt more blows—soldiered more assaults to his back, shoulders, ribs. But he did not withdraw his arm. A moment later, the fallen knight tapped the ground three times.

The yard roared with ovation.

Rory’s body went loose. He raised himself to his knees, then his feet, heaving and panting. He offered his hand to his fellow combatant, brought him to a stand, and the two jostled shoulders playfully. I heard the sound of laughter, and then Rory was removing his helmet, black hair catching the light, sticking to the sweat on his brow. He seemed at ease, like whatever disquiet warring within him had been spent in combat—

And then he saw me.

He went still, mouth half-open. There was blood on his bottom lip. Some near his left brow as well. The charcoal around his eyes was smeared, staining his sweat black. I’d never seen a knight so filthy—so physically degraded by his craft. He looked entirely ignoble.

I couldn’t look away.

“Diviner.”

I jumped. A knight stood to my left, his helmet under his arm. It took me a moment to tear my gaze off Rory and recognize him. “Oh. Hamelin, isn’t it?”

He gave half a smile. “And you’re—well, you’re Six. Obviously I don’t know your real name.”

“Tried to, though.”

He laughed. “Sorry about that. I felt a little guilty for asking. Especially after I’d, you know…” He ran his hand down the back of his neck. “Ruined the moment with talk.”

I shrugged. “It doesn’t matter now.”

My lack of insult, or interest, seemed to bolster him. He put on the charm, setting those perfectly straight teeth to good use with a blinding smile. “I’d do it differently, you know. If you ever had it in mind to try me again, I’d—”

“Hamelin.”

We both turned. Rory, slouched and lazy, arms crossed over his chest, was watching his fellow knight with so much blackness his eyes looked like open graves. “You and Rothspar are up next.”

“I’m talking.”

“Not anymore. Put your fucking helmet on.”

Hamelin’s smile waned. He took a step back from me. “Right. I should really—”

I didn’t watch him go. My gaze was on Rory. On his bloodied lip. He kept his eyes on me, too, then lifted his hand. Curled a single, beckoning finger.

I joined him in the heart of the yard. “Quite the spectacle.”

He was still breathing hard from combat. “You’ve spoken with Benji?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“He’s answered your questions?”

“As well as he’s fit to.”

His eyes narrowed. “And?”

“And…” My gaze fell to my bare feet. “What would you have me say? I have nowhere to go but forward.”

“Then you’ve agreed to come with us.”

“I will. To find the Diviners, I will.”

I watched his throat work, like he was swallowing what I’d said. Then he jerked his head. “Follow me.”

“Where?”

He was working the straps of his armor. Pulling it off himself as he left the yard. I muttered a swear and hurried after him. “Myndacious.”

“The knighthood leaves tomorrow,” he said. “Traum is full of danger. There are all manner of sprites.” He looked behind us to make sure no one was listening. “Not to mention the Omens. You’ll need better clothes. Fortifications. Better… everything.” It could have been blood. Or maybe, just maybe, I caught the hint of a flush in his cheeks. “I’m fitting you with armor.”