The enigmatic stranger Sylven had won more than the Princess's heart. Perhaps because of that, there was still an unmistakable buzzing excitement at the joust as the spectators filed into the stands. It was the main event of the day, and a chance to see the fascinating plague doctor once more. Count Cinbran had also succeeded in his duel, albeit considerably less exciting. He was up against Sylven again for the joust.
The rumor mill was also rapidly churning over the Phantom's departure. She was not the only conspicuously missing figure. Nicobar and his Sheriff were not in the royal box at the final arena either, which left the Princess alone. In a way she was free, yet the chains that bound her constricted more tightly when she was alone. At any moment chilling, dark shadows might encircle her.
Lady Hersillia continued to lead the ceremonies, looking for all the world calm and in control. Hurricane, however, could tell she had been shaken. It made his blood boil to think of the Sheriff using the mage as he pleased. Like she was his plaything.
Still, he also admired the lady all the more. The strength, dignity, and elegance with which she carried herself, all while never showing weakness was admirable. He thought she might make a good outlaw. She clearly enjoyed breaking a rule or two and was someone who could give even Grimholt a run for his money.
Echo in his multitude guided the horses and their riders out into the oval jousting track. The first rounds went by without much fanfare or fuss. Adora, and indeed most of the audience, were waiting with bated breath. His battle against Cinbran had been slotted for last. So, it came as a great surprise to Adora when the Count appeared in her viewing box.
"Princess," he said coolly, then dipped her a stiff bow.
"Whatever are you doing here, Your Countship?" She forced her face to stay as neutral as possible.
"His majesty Prince Nicobar has requested I should wait here, with you."
"Where is the Prince?"
"Has he not told you the truth of the matter?"
"Truth of what matter?"
Horns blared, interrupting them and announcing the arrival of Sylven's real competition. On a muscular, black stallion Prince Nicobar rode out to the starting position. His golden armor gleamed. A wave of shock and disbelief passing over the crowd. Adora nearly fainted, the corners of her vision going black and fuzzy. This could not be!
"There is that truth for one," said the Count, as he sat in the chair beside her. "The other is that-"
He was cut off by the magically amplified voice of Nicobar, tight with anger. "Enough is enough, Mr. Sylven! This preposterous game has reached its inevitable conclusion."
"Pity," Sylven replied haughtily. "I was under the impression the fun had just begun, Your Majesty." The plauge doctor laughed uproariously, like it was the funniest joke he had ever told. The sound crackled in the mask's magical filter. His steed, a sinewy gray mare, pawed the ground eagerly.
With a frustrated growl the Prince slapped his helmet down, and readied his horse, clenching the reins with a vice-like grip. He didn't wait for the signal to be given by the Echos and charged for Sylven with his lance leveled. The crowd gasped, some dared even boo, but the plague doctor didn't miss a beat. In a thunder of galloping hooves, he too charged.
The Princess sucked in a sharp breath as he raced headfirst at Nicobar, lance at the ready. There was a great CRACK!
The riders were both still atop their mounts, but Nicobar's lance was snapped in two. It had shattered upon impact with his rival's chest. There was murmuring in the crowd as the Prince glared viciously around, demanding silence. Blows didn't matter now, only throwing a rider from their steed would grant victory. The most simple and difficult challenge all at once, and by his own rule.
"You'll have to do better than that," taunted Sylven, a new sharp edge to his voice. "The Princess herself wished me luck! I cannot fail!"
He held the intact lance aloft, exposing Adora's pink hair ribbon laced around his wrist. Prince Nicobar practically roared in frustration.
"Did you really wish him luck?" Asked Count Cinbran calmly.
"I am not allowed to bestow favor," Adora squeaked, but her deep blush betrayed the truth. Lying by omission was not any better for her.
The two combatants flew at one another once more. There was a flurry of stamping hooves and kicked up dust, and the sound of spirited laughter from one rider. Children defied their parents and cheered, urging Sylven to victory over the mean old prince, Nasty Nicobar. If Princess Adora had wished him luck, why couldn't they? Others laughed, a growing sound of rebellion.
Another resounding CRACK and this time Sylven 's lance snapped. Now more audience members dared cheer as the Prince wobbled atop his steed, and nearly fell. More and more people were laughing and calling for victory, not even silencing when Nicobar glared at them all and ordered a time out.
The Sheriff slipped into the ring and held a private court of two with the frustrated monarch. All watched on wearily. Hurricane and Lady Hersillia talked in low whispers was they watched, comparing their dislike of the situation. The Echos watched on anxiously; the real one had a stomach ache and desperately missed Varena.
"I haven't got all day, Prince Nicobar! I'd fancy that kiss from the Princess sooner than later!" "You'll keep waiting!"
The Prince angrily maneuvered his horse back to the starting position. The Sheriff did not exit the arena, instead ducking back into the shadows. No one could see the thin, black wisps that began to wind around Sylven's throat and arms, except the Sheriff and his ever burning eyes.
Nicobar bellowed as he charged. Sylven did not laugh as he rushed forward, finding that he could not make any sound. He clutched the reigns, lance wavering in his grip as his breathing became suddenly shallow. The inky smoke about him was more visible now, pulling and crushing. Audience members that could see cried out in alarm.
Then there was a great crash, and the sound of a body falling to the ground.
Dust rose in a plume that obscured the scene for an agonizing heart beat. When it settled, Nicobar was lying on his back and fighting to catch his breath. Sylven was atop his steed, looking very, very surprised. The Prince had managed to knock only his mask off. The audience exploded into cheers and unstoppable laughter.
"It's Grimholt!" A child cried. "Mama, mama look it's Grimholt!"
"I knew it was him!" A peasant man shouted.
"Forest Keeper?!" The Princess yelled down from her box, standing up so quickly that she nearly passed out. He turned to look up at her.
"Princess!" His surprise gave way to a rapturous grin. "Princess Adora!"
The Sheriff sprang free from his hiding place, rushing to the aid of the humiliated prince. The celebration was silenced by the ragged, rage filled voice of Nicobar barking across the entire fairgrounds to his guards.
"Don't just stand there, you fools, that's Grimholt! Apprehend him at once!"
Adora almost fainted a second time, but Count Cinbran caught her by the elbow. "I believe this our queue to leave, Princess."
"But- but-"
"Come now, do not fight with your betrothed when he is trying to keep you safe from bandits."
"My what?" Her questions went unanswered as he ushered her out of the box, and away into the frantic crowd. Guards surrounded her in a flash, but not Varena. In moments she was pulled away and led to a carriage despite her protests.
Grimholt watched her and Cinbran leave with dismay and a sinking heart. This was not how this was supposed to go. Most certainly not how it was supposed to end! He allowed himself one deep, mournful sigh before turning his horse and bolting for escape.
The Sheriff was hot on his trail, coming in supernatural strides as black clouds gathered around him like a storm. Grimholt could still feel the strangling chill of that power around his throat, but pushed the horse onward.
The Echos popped out of existence, leaving only one behind to flap his arms wildly to flag down his leader. Grimholt reached down and scooped up the trembling man onto the galloping mare. Audience members poured out of the stands and block the Sheriff's path, making his magic harder to use against the moving target. "Go, Grimholt, go!" They shouted and shoved as guards ran in to restrain them.
Lady Hersillia was also ran through the jostling crowd, pulling Hurricane fervently behind by the wrist when the outlaw dug his heels into the dirt. It caused her to stop and snap back against his chest.
"Calden?" She asked with confusion, intimately aware of their newfound closeness. He was rather handsome up close, in a scruff sort of way. "Hurry, there are bandits! We must get to safety."
"I'm not too worried about the bandits. You get out of here though, my lady, go find your princess."
"I am not leaving you behind in the middle of danger!"
Hurricane looked at her sadly and released her hand. He wanted to laugh, or cry, or maybe both as she took a small step back. He settled on smiling. It was a pitiful, ugly one but all he could manage. "I don't think you'll have much of a choice on that one, love."
"Whatever are you-?" but Lady Hersillia could not finish her question.
She watched in disbelief as the funny, straightforward, interesting man she had spent the day with wordlessly reach his hand up. In a flash Grimholt and Echo raced past, and swept Calden, better known as Hurricane, up and away with them, and out of her life. She could not help but feel like a little piece of her heart went with them.
The gray mare ran like the wind, carrying her precious cargo through the frantic fairgrounds.
Grimholt lashed the reigns, urging her onward and navigating through the scrambling crowd, until they were out of reach of grasping guards. They paused only a moment, so Hurricane and Echo could mount their own hidden horses and follow their leader to the King's Forest.
They made haste to lose themselves in the dense, dark, wild wood. There was no joyous laughter from Grimholt; his face was a mask of anger. It was an unhappy, silent ride back to camp for the trio. Without fanfare, the sun set and plunged the kingdom into night.
True to form, Gristle did not clue into the darkness around his leader when they at last returned. He put the lid back onto his simmering pot of stew, and met the riderss. Gristle easily scooped Grimholt up from the saddle, lifting him by the armpits, off of the mare entirely. He held his leader up like a kitten, Grimholt's feet dangling and head bowed miserably.
"Put me down, Gristle," Grimholt said sourly. He did not fight against the chef, knowing from experience that the outcome would be futile, but he did scowl pointedly.
"It didn't go well," said Hurricane in a glum, hushed tone as he and Echo climbed down off their horses.
"Well, was it all bad?" Asked Gristle. Still holding Grimholt, he wandered purposefully into camp and away from his dinner preparations.
Grimholt sighed, and cast his eyes moodily to the side. "No, it wasn't all bad."
"You should have seen 'em, Gristle," said Echo, shadowboxing. "He knocked Nasty Nicobar off his own horse in the joust!"
Gristle smiled widely, a knowing grin. "Sounds like one hell of a story, Boss. The crew sure would love to hear all 'bout it."
"I do not feel in a story-telling mood, Gristle. I just want to be left alone, to sharpen my sword. For when the Sheriff comes to kill me."
"Oh, don't be so morbid! What kind of leader can't be bothered to keep his own band informed? Just tell us what happened, then you can go off to lick your wounds." The chef plunked Grimholt onto the worn, wooden stage set between two shady willows. The rest of crew began to make their way over their way over, roused by the commotion and the promise of another of Grimholt's whirlwind performances.
"How did it go?" "Did you win?" "Where did you get that silly, pink ribbon?"
They trickled in and filled the makeshift collection of old chairs on the grass. All looked upon their leader with curiosity and reverence. The outlaw leader hated when they looked at him that way, like he could solve every problem that existed. He hated his ego more, because far too often he believed them.
He threw his head back, groaning loudly so they were well aware. Then, with a needlessly dramatic sigh, stomped to the middle of the stage. "Fine! I shall tell you all how it went. Bloody vultures."
He began his tale, unenthused, explaining listlessly how he had been exposed and chased out of the contest, never earning Adora's kiss as the promised prize for the contest. As Hurricane and Echo added bits and pieces to the story, and as more questions were asked by the others, their leader's energy began to change and restore. He grew more animated and excited, remembering just how many victories had truly been won. Before long he was dancing across the stage, twirling and slashing his cutlass and singing the praises of the Phantom and their fantastic duel.
"Though, I must admit, my admiration for her pales in comparison to Echo's," he said with a wink. Echo went pink, blushing from toe to tip, as much from the alcohol they had all broken into, as from his emotions.
"She's just soooo amazing," he slurred and they all laughed.
"And do tell us of the lovely Lady Hersillia," Grimholt asked Hurricane salaciously. He punched Grimholt roughly in the arm and refused to answer.
The outlaw laughed, and tumbled backwards from the blow, then sprung acrobatically back to his feet. He pantomimed shooting arrow after arrow into the targets. The bandits listened with rapt attention and building elation as he recounted mocking the Prince openly, declaring that the Princess had wished him and him only luck. Not even the handsome Count Cinbran who had escorted her away, something that still troubled Grimholt, had had that privilege.
"A gift from my lady. She's always had a marvelous rebellious streak. And right under the prince's nose, no less." He held her ribbon aloft, still tied around his wrist.
"It worked!" Called out an excited, drunken voice. "You won the joust, didn't you? You're an official suitor, by the rules of the land!"
Grimholt tipped his head to the side in thought, hand rising to his chin, and began to pace thoughtfully."I did, didn't I? I'm still in the running, aren't I?"
"Yes!" Cried the drunken chorus. "You're in!" Each confirmation was a log being tossed onto the building fire in his heart, stoking its red-hot embers into action.
"I'm still in. Still in." He paced, back and forth, nearly a dance now, grinning uncontrollably. "And Nasty Nicobar can't stop me. He cannot stop the real Sylven!"
"Just think how angry he'll be when his plans were ruined by an outlaw."
"Ruined by true love."
The fire that roared in his heart burned so bright it shone through his eyes now. He leapt from the stage, landing in a tumble, before leaping back up into a sprint toward the horses.
"Where are you going?" Gristle yelled after him, but he already knew the answer.
"I have unfinished business to attend to! Do not wait for me, keep the party going. I'll be back before the dawn!"
No one argued or tried to stop him. Instead, they played him out with a song.