Ferd’s guards, sent to apprehend Stout Henry and bring him back to face his sentence — death — had decided instead to have him face the penalty meted out by the mysterious that… THING that lived in Owlshead Forest. Which was, to enter the Tournament that had filled all the inns of Nodding Fields with contestants and the crowds who had come from all over the Southlands to take part in the many battle royales that would give bragging rights to the villages and towns who’d sent their best to compete.
The Keeper of the Lists, though, wasn’t having any of it.
“The Tournament has been going on for a week, now. This is the very last day. The people fighting today are the very best. Half the people within a dozen leagues are here today to cheer on their teams. And you think you can just enter this… this… I hesitate to call him a fighter. Just what ARE you?”
“I,” said Stout Henry, “am an adventurer!” His voice was strong and proud, and though showing the signs of a fairly enthusiastic and recent beating, he gave a good imitation of a bow. “I advent! And I do it well!”