A shout to March’s right alerted him just in time to leap over a pit. Another two boys were not so quick and fell in. And then the group was out of the woods and in a meadow, which rose before them to a rounded peak far ahead. On the peak was a platform with the wood and metal contraption that the blacksmiths had been working on. The prisoner was standing on the platform with his arms out. The sword was stuck into a wooden beam close to his head.
But getting to the sword wasn’t going to be easy—a boy near March screamed and fell, an arrow in his leg. The boy ripped the arrow out, shouting a curse. The archer now fled, but he didn’t stand a chance—some other boys chased him and brought him down.
Those boys had got distracted from the main task, but March and Sam stuck to it. They were at the front of the group now. March slowed a little to scan around for more bowmen, but that was a mistake. Pain shot through his back—not from an arrow but a punch. “Too slow, White Eyes.” A tall boy with the badge of a Fox ran past him and grabbed Sam, who had turned to check what was happening. The Fox lifted Sam by his jerkin and swung him round, tossing him through the air. Sam rolled nimbly to his feet, dodged an arrow, and gave chase, but they had lost precious moments. The Fox was nearly at the platform. March shouted to Sam to keep going while reaching into his pocket, pulling out his stones, and sending three in rapid succession at the Fox’s head. The boy screamed and slowed as blood poured down his neck. Sam ran past him, punching him in the face. They were nearly at the platform, but more arrows rained down, and March and Sam had to run back to avoid them. The boys behind were approaching; one sent a spear whistling past Sam’s head. March defended Sam with his stones, cursing as he threw. But Sam was there. He climbed on the platform and shouted, “I’ve got it! I’ve got the sword.”
And Sam stood on the platform above them all, hand on the hilt of the sword.
March was below him, ready to defend the position with his stones, but the other boys slowed to a halt as the prince and his soldiers rode up.
It was over. Sam had won. And March had hopefully done well enough that he could stay in the army.
Prince Harold called out, “Well done to the Bulls: the first to reach the platform. But to win, you must return the sword to me.”
March smiled and looked up at Sam. But then he realized the test wasn’t just a matter of getting the sword.
It was stuck into a wooden beam and was holding a rope in place. The prisoner whose tongue was cut out was tied to a wooden cross—no, not tied: his hands were nailed in place. And above the prisoner was a metal contraption with a huge blade attached to it. It was clear that when the sword was removed, the rope would be let loose, the blade would swing round, and . . . and March wasn’t sure, but it looked like it might cut the man in two, across his stomach.
The prisoner’s face was full of hate, his eyes staring at Harold.
“Come on, Bull. I want my sword back,” Harold said.
Sam looked to the prince. His mouth worked, though no words came out. It seemed that he said, “Yes, Your Highness.” And, with shaking hands, Sam pulled the sword free.
For a moment, nothing happened. Sam gave a brief smile of relief and held the sword up. But, as he took a step to the prince, the contraption whooshed down, almost taking Sam’s arm before it slammed into the prisoner’s stomach, cutting across his body. The man was sliced in two. His eyes still stared ahead.
Sam stood in shock, staring ahead too.
The prince rode forward and took the sword.
Sam jumped down to March, not looking round once to the body behind him. “I had to do it. I had to.”
“Yes, I know, Sam. The prisoner was dead anyway. The prince did it, not you.”
March put a hand on Sam’s shoulder, but Sam shook it off. “Don’t touch me. I’m not a baby. I can handle it. The man was a traitor.”