Chapter Two: Contest

Throp walked alone towards Larowyn castle. His mother insisted it would only make him nervous if she was there. He wasn’t sure it was possible to be more nervous than he already was.

His mother didn’t know any details of the competition, only that they were looking for the strongest, bravest man in the kingdom.

“And no one’s stronger than my boy,” she said. She was in high spirits that morning, elated that he had agreed to try out. “And don’t forget what to say when you win.” He closed his eyes, trying to remember the short speech.

“I humbly accept this most, uh…” He opened an eye to look at his mother, whose mouth hung open.

“Aaaah,” she said, drawing out the syllable.

“Auspicious,” he said and started over. “I humbly accept this most auspicious honor and will serve my king and my kingdom with courage and uh… determination?” Hazel smiled.

“Good boy!”

He repeated the speech in his head as he approached the castle, although he had little confidence that he would have to make it.

His eyes darted up to the rusty portcullis as he stepped through the archway into the outer courtyard. The market was significantly less crowded than usual. Only a few dozen people milled around even fewer stalls. Throp realized he didn’t know where he was supposed to go. He spotted a guard leaning against the wall and approached him.

“Excuse me,” Throp said. “I’m looking for… I mean, there’s supposed to be a contest… or something.” The guard straightened and looked Throp up and down.

“You really think you can win?” the guard asked. Throp shrugged. The guard went on. “Better be more sure than that,” he said. “Royal family’s not liable for any injuries that may occur during this competitions. Weaklings need not apply, right?” He chuckled. Throp wasn’t sure if the guard was serious or making fun of him. He looked around and spotted a pile of burlap sacks bursting with grain, stacked next to a bored-looking merchant. Throp picked up one of the bags. It must have weighed seventy pounds, but he hoisted it up over his head with ease. He was lean, but eight years of doing the lion’s share of the farm work, had made him quite strong. He turned back to the guard.

“Think this is good enough?” he asked earnestly. The guard raised his eyebrows and nodded. Throp dropped the bag onto the pile and apologized to the merchant, who now looked annoyed. The guard jerked his head to the left.

“Around the corner. Inner courtyard,” he said. “Better hurry, they’re set to start soon.”

“Thanks,” Throp said. He took off at a jog and rounded the corner, stopping it his tracks when he entered the inner courtyard. He had never seen it before, had never, he realized, even really seen the castle. It was huge. The courtyard alone was almost the size of his entire farm. What looked like a small, makeshift corral stood in the center and around it stood more people than Throp had ever seen in one place. They were fanning themselves in the heat and talking, their voices blending together to create one loud drone. Throp took a deep breath and approached the nearest guard, who was sitting at a table and writing on a piece of parchment.

“Uh,” Throp said. “I’m here for the contest.”

“Name?” the guard barked without looking up.

“Throp.” The guard looked up then and studied Throp’s face for a moment.

“You Hazel’s son?”

Throp nodded.

“Like her pies,” the guard said.

“Uh, thanks?” The guard scribbled something on the parchment, then pointed to the corral.

“In there,” he said. Throp looked and saw, just inside the corral, a group of a dozen men, milling around. None of them looked nervous.

“What exactly are we doing?” Throp asked, but the guard was looking back down already and didn’t answer. Throp made his way through the crowd to the corral and joined the men inside. Dust swirled around his feet as he entered; the entire corral was patch of dirt, otherwise empty except for a small pen on the opposite side. Throp smiled at the others and a few of them chuffed and shook their heads. Most of them were bigger than he was and they were all older by at least a few years. One in particular stood out, a huge man with a grizzled beard and arms like tree trunks, who towered over the rest of them by a good four inches. He watched as the man sized up the crowd, then made a show of removing his shirt and tossing it out of the corral. His well-muscled chest was covered with thick hair and the crowd responded with hoots and whistles. Throp wished that his mother had come so she could see him for herself. Whatever the competition was, this man was surely going to win.

After a few minutes of awkward standing around during which Throp wondered if it was too late to turn around and go home, he was startled out of his thoughts by the sound of trumpets. The crowd hushed and looked up. Throp followed their gaze to a balcony at the other end of the courtyard. Two trumpeters stood blaring their instruments and between them three figures appeared, a man and a woman. Throp could barely make them out, but from the purple robes, he guessed they were King Lucas and Queen Amelia. He had never seen them in person. A third figure, shorter and wearing green, appeared between them.

The trumpets blared again and a man entered the corral, followed by two guards, who were carrying between them a small crate. The stopped in the center of the corral.

“Citizens!” the announcer cried. “Thank you for joining us. Tomorrow the our beloved daughter of Larowyn, Princess Nicolette, sets off to meet her destiny and usher in a new era of alignment between two great kingdoms.” The crowd cheered and the announcer went on.

“To escort her on her journey, only the strongest and bravest of our citizens will do!” He gestured to the competitors, some of whom straightened and puffed out their chests, playing to the crowd. Throp smiled weakly and gave a little wave.

“Gentleman,” the announcer said, addressing the group of competitors. “Your duty is to escort the princess and protect her from those who may wish her harm. The first man to get the princess to safety -” he pointed to the pen on the other side of the corral - “will be the winner.” The crowd murmured in confusion as the guards set down the crate and opened the door. A piglet, no larger than a barn cat, stepped out cautiously, sniffing the air with its pink snout. A pink ribbon was tied around its neck. The crowd erupted in laughter and before Throp could get his bearings, another whistle blew and his competitors scrambled past him. He took off running, too, but as he tried to pass through the group, someone shoved him violently and he fell over backwards. He landed on his back earning another round of laughter from the crowd. He sat up on his elbows and craned his neck. The other dozen men were making their way across the corral, pushing and shoving each other. Unsurprisingly, the bearded man reached the pig first. The piglet looked up at him, unperturbed, and just as another pair of men neared them, the bearded man reached down and wrapped his hands around the piglet.

Throp let his head drop back to the ground.

That was fast, he thought. I’ll just stay down here.

He heard a loud squeal and looked up to again to see the pig wriggling out of the bearded man’s hands. It landed on the ground with a loud thunk, then took off running, zig-zagging across the corral and squealing furiously. Throp got to his feet and joined the stampede of men chasing the piglet. The bearded man was shoving the others down with his huge arms, keeping the lead for a moment until the piglet would make another hard turn, changing direction and giving itself a few feet of distance between it and its pursuers. A stocky man kept threatening to overtake the group and finally the bearded man grabbed him by the shoulder and punched him in the jaw. The crowd gasped and the man swung his own fist. The bearded man dodged to the right and the stocky man missed, flying past him and clocking another man instead. That man responded and soon almost everyone was involved. Throp was trailing and easily ducked out of the scuffle. He saw the bearded man do the same and they locked eyes for a second before sprinting toward the piglet from opposite directions. The piglet had stopped to catch its breath, and Throp reached it just seconds before the bearded man. Throp threw himself at the ground, arms outstretched, but suddenly the bearded man’s boot appeared, connecting with the piglet’s side and sending it flying across the corral, squealing in pain. The crowd let out another gasp. Throp landed hard on his chest and looked up, realizing what happened. 

The bearded man has kicked the piglet: the poor innocent creature that was supposed to represent their princess. It had landed ten feet from the pen and lay there, unmoving. The bearded man began to stalk off toward the piglet and Throp reached out and grabbed his legs, intending to take him down, but the man was solid, unmovable. He kicked a leg, trying to shake Throp off, and Throp did the only other thing he could think of. He grabbed the bearded man’s pants legs and pulled hard. The trousers came down, the weak fabric ripping against the man’s substantial legs and revealing a surprising lack of underwear. The crowd gasped, then fell into laughter as the bearded man scrambled to cover himself. Throp took the advantage and got to his feet, dashing toward the motionless piglet. It squealed at him and struggled to get up, but fell back down, still dazed. Throp grabbed it up, hugged it to his chest, its trotters digging into his skin. He stepped over to the pen, stepped inside and with his foot, pulled the door closed behind him.

The crowd roared.

Chapter Three >