Gannon’s face went dark with blood and fury. “Later, Princess,” he said. “In our bedroom.”
Aria let her hair fall.
“Very well,” she agreed. “But do me one thing, noble Gannon. The hero who slew Rakastava bound the manes of the three trophies. Do thou separate them here, so that all can see proof of thy prowess.”
Gannon drew his sword.
Dennis was on his feet, but the champion’s intent was not the murder he had threatened if Aria denied him. He waved the shining blade high and called to the assembly, “Indeed, I will separate the heads—as I separated them in life from the living monster!”
He brought his blade down with a crash, hacking the knot against the table like a butcher jointing meat on a chopping block.
When Gannon lifted his sword again, the steel edge was notched and the glass-hard manes were as they had been before the vain stroke. The King’s Champion gaped at his blade.
Dennis stepped forward, remembering his own shock when he cut at Malbawn’s forearm with the Founder’s Sword and succeeded only in putting a thumb-deep notch in the steel. Now the blade he held bare was truly star-metal, and in his left hand—
“Princess Aria!” Dennis called. “I believe these are yours.”
He held his left hand high. When he opened his fist, everyone in the hall could see the crystal jewelry tumble into her cupped palm.
There was a gasp so general that it seemed the room itself drew in a breath.
“And these—” Dennis went on.
He expected Gannon to try to stop him as he reached for the joined heads. Instead, the King’s Champion only watched. Perhaps he was still stunned by events; perhaps he was arrogant enough to think his failure was everyone’s certain failure.
The weight of Rakastava’s lifeless heads was nothing to muscles as charged with adrenalin as Dennis’ were. He lifted them high, his thumb and forefinger locked in the nostrils of the freshest trophy and the other two dangling like charms from a bracelet.
Dennis brought his sword around. The knot sang like a lute-string parting. Two heads bumped and jounced onto the table, then rolled to the floor. Dennis waved the third higher yet, then hurled it toward the center of the hall.
“Dennis!” Aria screamed.
He turned, and Gannon cut down at his skull.
But Gannon was a courtier, while Dennis was a swordsman whose skill and reflexes had been honed to a wire edge around and beneath this city. He raised his own long blade without having to think about it, a blocking motion and not a lethal stroke.
Dennis didn’t need to kill the King’s Champion. Gannon had nothing, and Dennis had everything his heart desired.
The swords met at the cross-guards, the thickest part of the metal. Gannon’s blade rang in two notes, the stump in his hand vibrating at one frequency and the rest of the steel quivering an undamped song as it spun to the floor.
Dennis put his left arm around the princess. “King Conall,” he said formally. “I guarded your herds. I slew Rakastava to save your daughter. Now I ask you for your daughter’s hand, for I love her.”
He looked at Aria, nestled against his side. “If she will have me,” he added.
Aria put her arms around Dennis’ neck again and kissed him in the sight of all.
Gannon flung down the hilt of his weapon and ran toward a door. The remainder of the honor guard had been seated nearby. With Dalquin in the lead, half a dozen of them grabbed their one-time champion.
“Kill him!” somebody called. A thousand throats echoed the demand.
Dennis raised his sword so that its point seemed to threaten the high ceiling. “Wait!” he cried; and as the hall quieted, “Wait!” again.
“You don’t need Gannon here,” he said to the faces watching him fervently. “But you don’t need his blood on your hands either.”
He was like all the rest of you, Dennis thought but did not say. Only more so.
“Put him in the jungle. He’ll survive, if he wants to. And maybe it’ll even make a man of him.”
As it did me.