Immortal Champion by Lisa Hendrix Read Free Book Online

walnut, gleamed in the torchlight and drew another cheer from the crowd. “Herald, read out the rules of combat.”
    The rules were much as the old man had said, with the addition of information on bounds and fouls. As the herald finished, Gunnar tore his eyes away from the golden apple to take a final look up at the Castle of Love. Lamps had been lit inside the pavilion, and he truly could see the shadows now, his imaginings come to life.
    Suddenly, the concealing draperies were thrown back and there they were: women, all in a cluster, like fine, feathered birds in a nest. Waiting. He grinned and bowed to them, sweeping so low his fingertips scraped the ground. After all, one of them was waiting for him, even if she didn’t know it yet.
    And then the horn blew and he landed on his ass, knocked down in the trample of men that rushed toward the favors even before the echo died away. He rolled to his feet, ignoring the laughter of the watching crowd. He wasn’t the only one caught unawares, but he was the only one who’d hit the ground and the only one who didn’t immediately dash off after the others, instead taking a moment to brush the dust off his clothes and make another, deeper bow, this one to the lady in the window. As she clapped in delight, he turned and trotted over to the wall of favors.
    Men were already piling up at the bottom, dislodged by the stronger or luckier, or by their own clumsiness. The skinny squire he’d overheard earlier was doing his lord proud, scampering up the wall like a squirrel to reach the silver and black riband well ahead of any others. As the lad untied the bit of silk, the next man below surged up to grab his ankle. The boy fought to hold on, but the lower man was heavier and dogged. Slowly, the boy peeled away.
    “Lord William!”
    The squire, barely clinging by one hand, swung wildly and dropped the riband off to one side. Tunstall—for that was surely who the attacker must be—released him and lunged, but the riband fluttered by just past his fingertips. A third man, lower still, reached out, snagged it midair, stuffed it in his shirt, and started down.
    Overhead, the squire whooped with pleasure. “Go, my lord. Fly to your lady.”
    “Little whoreson.” The foiled Tunstall snarled and lashed out with his truncheon, catching the squire across the shins so hard Gunnar could hear the crack. The boy yelped and lost his grip. As he fell, he struck his Lord William and carried him off the wall. They both landed with a whoomp on the growing pile at the bottom. Tunstall started down, clearly intending to retrieve the riband.
    If there wasn’t at least one broken bone out of this, ’twould be a miracle. With one eye on the men climbing and tumbling and beating at each other with their truncheons, Gunnar lined himself up with the glove and paced out seven long strides to the end of the wall. Then, stepping over a couple of fallen warriors, he walked around to the rear of the wall and paced seven strides back. It should be right up—he sighted carefully— there .
    With no one to battle, it took him only moments to climb the back of the wall, reach over the top, and grope around until he hit something soft. He barely had hold of it, barely had the inkling it wasn’t leather, when a hand closed around his wrist. He jerked back, bringing whatever it was with him, and laughed when someone swore. He glanced down at the glove.
    God’s toes. It wasn’t the glove at all, but a wine-colored veil a good dozen men had had their eyes on.
    No matter. He didn’t know who the glove belong to anyway—and he little cared, just as he little cared about the curses and cries of protests that sailed over the wall after the veil.
    There’d been nothing in the rules about the back of the wall being out of bounds, after all, and the herald’s quick answer to the protests quickly confirmed it. Grinning, Gunnar shoved the scrap of cloth into his shirt, scrambled down far enough to drop to the ground,