Stout Henry pulled the blade of the staff from Farmer Jonas’ chest. The crowd of Cotsberry competitors, families and fans from the small farming town were silent, but for some weeping.
“Did ya SEE THAT?” yelled Stout Henry. “Circle Strafe Left, Disarming Block, Crushing Blow and Swift Impale, 1 2 3 4 and it was OVAH!” He looked around at the crowd of silent people.
“Well, come on,” said Henry. “I won! I mean, aren’t you glad you found out what a noob he was before he got in the Tournament? No way you’d win. Weak link and all. So, I’m in, right? Because we’re going to have to change things up around here.”
A woman dressed in bright green with yellow ribbons entwined in her sleeves and bodice rushed to Jonas’ body — crying, but still, eerily silent. She felt for Jonas’ pulse, found none, and looked at Henry with bitter hatred in her eyes.
Silently, four men arrived with a board, lifted Jonas’ body onto it, and carried it gently into the bed of a wagon. Others in the contingent began striking the tents and the tables. All around, the Cotsberry folk made preparations to leave.
“You cannot leave!” yelled the leader of Ferd’s guardsmen, who had been hoping to enter Stout Henry in the Tournament, where he would fight to his death. “Who’s going to represent Cotsberry?”
The woman who had tended to Jonas’ body turned, and said the only word any of the folk had said in the long minutes since Henry had slain Jonas in their short, bloody, duel. “We won’t share a field or a stage with a murderer. Hell be with you all. It’s more than you deserve.”
