Chapter 7 - The prince and the fury (Rookie Games arc)

　　The artisan erupted in raucous laughter. "Spoken like a Blackrose alright. Would that we were at royal court, my lord—pardon me... your highness." Scrabbling for footing, the artisan tried to hoist himself up, but the sand shifted underfoot, had grown treacherous from the scuffle. With a resounding thunk, he crashed to the ground once more, wincing and hollering.

　　"You`ve had your pardon already. One more than I am in the habit of giving," Cedric rebuffed. But the prince had learned to forgive easy, for a bested foe turned away is an ally lost.

　　The prince reached out his hand, offering to lift the artisan to his feet. Momentarily, the two clasped hands, but then the artisan withdrew. "Ah, but my liege has more pressing concerns." With a curt nod of the head—one all too composed for comfort—the artisan directed Cedric`s attention towards the plains, where a hostile presence lurked hardly a stone`s throw away. Stamping toward them was the face of fury, a slaver-mouthed rookie slicing a path through the low-cropped plains, his purple spear hoisted high.

　　"He is early," said the artisan. "Would that your bannerman could assist, but I am spitting out the sand still which you saw right to bestow me."

　　"Be silent. I do not indulge words spoken in jest. And it matters not. There is not a man alive who could best a prince of Lothrian in single combat." Cedric sounded confident, and he hoped to harken to these words. Looking at this menacing beast in swift approach, the musclebound rookie cracking through the dead heat of midday, limbs flailing in reckless abandon... it was clear this would be no mere punch-pulling exhibition match.

　　"My buckler," cried Cedric, holding his arm out to the reclined artisan.

　　"A proud day for me," said the artisan as he bent to where Cedric could loosen the harness and snatch the buckler off his back. "My illustrious liege commandeers the shield off my back."

　　"Your memory falters, much like your allegiance. The buckler is mine." The prince had it all planned: with the buckler it would not be so hard to betwixt a mad spearman into a sequence of errors—evade, block, evade, riposte, block, counter, and then in for the kill... or subdual, for these were rookie-proof wooden weapons.

　　Cedric bent low to grab the buckler tightly by the handle, then tried to rise. Several times.

　　Stooped low still, the prince felt the green of his cheeks go red as he stared in abashed vexation at the damn buckler. It just would not budge.

　　The artisan laughed up a storm. "Command the shield to do your bidding—tell it you`re a Blackrose royal!"

　　"What vile spell have you cast, keeping me rooted to the grounds of perdition?" With baleful eyes Cedric beheld the man who had done little but humiliate him at every opportunity... was the necklace also a ruse of sorts then? Is this man hellbent on my destruction? No, Cedric concluded—that line of reasoning did not hold up. He wants me strong, or he would not have bestowed the gift of speech and courage, Cedric thought, looking down on the green-glowing locket. It calmed him to look at it. No—this thing around his neck, it was pure; it was grace itself, encapsulated in a silver-rimmed relic. Not an implement of cunning evil.

　　"It`s the gem for Godric`s sake—the red magestone boosts the shield to a higher grade. You can`t wield it, not with your stats," the artisan voiced in a flurry, his tone affected with mounting unease over the unaddressed assailant who was now—he twisted his neck to look—close enough that a marksman could pierce him clean through the heart. Ten metres out, if that.

　　"My stats? What in Byron`s name are you on about?" Cedric roared as he rose shieldless to face the impending foe, staring wanly at his flimsy dagger with the yellow wooden point... and feeling rather unnerved. He traced cautious steps in the sand, strafing in a semi-circle pattern, away from the artisan and the huntress. Cedric kept his eyes trained on the spear-wielding rookie charging blindly toward him and only him now—keeping the other two safe. They were his future subjects after all. Once he took his rightful place as lord of all goblins.This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

　　The artisan yelled out something in response, but the words fell to the wayside, drowned out by the silent swell before battle. The prince was all focus now, gauging the worth of his foe. Three spear-lengths out, the brazen rookie rose mighty and large, a tower of flesh against the sun-streaked horizon. Larger, it seemed, than the scores of goblins Cedric had felled in his first life. But such was the power of perception—the prince had been a prime specimen, standing proud at six feet and five inches. How low he was now, that a two-foot hatchling seemed a giant to him.

　　A fearsome roar—the spear-wielder lunging forth and committing to a full-force thrust, spit flying from his gaping maw. It was a brute`s way of battle, surging in with no regard. All-out on a breakneck offense.

　　The prince leaned back, cracked his dagger down on the spearhead, pivoting and spinning along the misdirected shaft, launching forward in a clean counter-charge. Crisp and calculated. Miscalculated.

　　Had it been trusty Dicebolg in his hand, or a cold-hammered shortblade... hell, anything of Lothrian military make... the duel would have ended there and then. A blow like his, he would have shattered the spear, decapitating the wielder in follow-up. But the days of wine and roses, they were gone.

　　The spear remained whole; the hulking foe was not sent toppling in forward fall. Cedric had just spun his way into danger. Twisting at the hip, the feral bastard leaned into the momentum of Cedric`s strike, cooking up a thunderous right. This was not the artisan he was fighting, the prince realized to his dismay... the man before him had twice the mass or more. Even the sturdy huntress would prove no match in raw physicality. In a dead-hearted beat, the prince had to face facts—there was no way he could take a hit, not from this redlining monolith. A straight-up strike would lay him out; a blocked or glancing blow would break his posture, leaving him rattled and reeling in the thorny aftermath.

　　Abandoning the strategy of a swift and decisive counter, Cedric hurtled forward, flailing into a headlong dive. The wind of the foe`s arcing swing sent a shiver rippling through skin and nerve—the tumbling prince forced into high alert. But the blow itself surged narrowly past, striking air and air alone.

　　In a blood-rushed haze, the prince scrambled for position—his acrobatic manoeuvre had sent him careening into further danger, landing straight at the foe`s gnarled feet. A fight in close-quarters was the last thing Cedric needed, and so he pushed off and out—or prepared to, driving his weight into the wet sand... but the ravening foe didn`t think twice of it; discarding his spear, the man doubled down on in-fight savagery, unloading a kick at the crouching prince.

　　Cedric braced himself behind the cross-guard of his arms acting on instinct. The prince gritted his teeth, digging his feet deeper into the sand—shelling up and shifting in towards the kick. Shortening the load-up time would suffocate the opponent`s power. Would minimize the damage. But it would not negate it. Not entirely.

　　The collision was one of force against finesse. Even at such short range, the impact jolted through the brittle bones of the prince`s neonate form. He staggered back, springboarding away at the precise moment of contact.

　　Crashing hard into the sand, the prince groaned under the battle-born strain he was forced to endure. No time to ruminate—the foe came barrelling straight at him, issuing a crass war-cry that cracked through the air.

　　It was not princely what Cedric did next. Not dignified. But it was necessary.

　　Thrusting his fingers into the gritty sand, Cedric gathered a large fistful, then slung it with a wide sweep of his arm, aiming for the eyes. The savage, bloodshot eyes bounding hard toward him.

　　Striking true.

　　An anguished howl sliced through the marrow of the goblins gathered in witness to this fierce display—the artisan, the huntress, the prince. All were made small before the fury of the blinded foe, thrashing about in erratic jerks, windmilling his mighty limbs in seething, fang-bearing rage. Fierce. But futile.

　　Cedric leapt to his feet, biting away the pain that crackled through his arms, his back, his everything. His pride. Sprinting back toward the artisan, the prince gave form to a new plan. One born of dire necessity.

　　"You`ll get it back," said the prince in a breathless way as he relieved the artisan of his green magering. Sliding it on, Cedric hoped for a burst of renewal akin to his first awakening. There was nothing of the sort. But if stats were a hindrance... perhaps now they were not. He reached for the gem-infused buckler affixed loosely to the artisan`s back, lifting with all the strength of his being.

　　Light as a feather. A surge in his stats on account of the ring... and the buckler was his to wield now. A bastion of defence, vital for shelter against the dead heat of battle.

　　"Say the word, prince... and I rally..." said the artisan with greater trouble than before, separated from the ring that augmented the fluency of his speech. Still, the man had recouped some vigour from his extended rest, shifting now into a languid perch against the shoreline sand. His words had radiated calm, but his voice had not. Danger loomed large, and the man recognized it.

　　Cedric smirked—not a moment of hesitation, not a moment of wavering. "The day a prince calls for aid in a blood duel... is the day he stops being a prince. Sit back. Watch."

　　The prince wove back into the fray, arcing in a defensive crescent around his blood-crazed foe.