I glanced over at Maximus, making sure he was still ignoring me, then pitched my voice even softer and lower. “He also had a caladrius in a cage.”
“A caladrius?” Worry filled Sullivan’s face. “They have even more magic than strixes do. Gargoyles too.”
“I know. The caladrius was just a baby, but I think that Maximus was going to cut its throat, drink its blood, and take its magic, just like he did to that strix during the ball.”
More worry filled Sullivan’s face. “With that much power, he could do almost anything. Kill a dozen people with a single blast of lightning. Crush solid stone to splinters. Even knock this entire terrace right out from under us.”
“Or flatten an encampment and everyone in it,” I whispered back.
Understanding flashed in his eyes. “You think he was going to use the caladrius against you, against Bellona.”
“Yes. Otherwise, why bring it all this way from Morta and risk losing it?”
Sullivan hesitated, as though he didn’t want to give voice to his thought, but he finally said the words. “Do you think he has more of them? More caladriuses?”
I glanced over at the Mortan king, who was still sipping champagne and talking to Nox. “I don’t know. But I hope not, for all our sakes.”
* * *
Down below, Cho strode out to the middle of the arena floor to announce that the final bout of the tournament was starting. Everyone on the terrace took their seats, as did the people in the bleachers.
No one wanted to miss the championship fight.
The crowd quieted, and a low, rolling drumbeat rang out. The sound went on and on and on, and everyone leaned forward, eager for what was coming next.
“And now,” Cho called out, his voice booming through the arena, “our first finalist and the reigning champion. Prince Mercer Maximus Morland Morricone of Morta!”
Cheers erupted, and people yelled, screamed, clapped, and whistled for Mercer, who strode forward and lifted his arms out to his sides, just like he had during the first bout this morning. The prince was wearing the same dark purple fighting leathers as before, and his silver shield and sword gleamed in his hands.
On the terrace, Maximus rose from his seat, smiling and clapping. Nox did the same, and the rest of the Mortan contingent clapped along, as did Maeven, although she didn’t look nearly as thrilled as everyone else did.
Mercer stepped into the center ring and started swinging his sword, warming up. Cho ignored him and turned toward the opposite end of the arena.
“And our challenger, Paloma the Powerful of Bellona!”
Paloma appeared and strode to the center of the arena. She was wearing her light gray fighting leathers, with her silver mace in her hand and her silver shield strapped to her forearm.
I surged to my feet, as did Heinrich and Zariza, who were sitting beside me again, and we all yelled, clapped, screamed, and whistled at the top of our lungs. Sullivan, Serilda, Auster, Xenia—they all joined in, and our cheers were among the loudest in the arena.
Paloma looked up at us, grinned, and stabbed her mace into the air. The she dropped it to her side, stepped into the ring, and faced Mercer.
Cho held up his hands, asking for silence. “This is the final bout to determine the winner of this year’s Tournament of Champions and the best gladiator in all the kingdoms. This fight is to first blood only. Remember that.”
Cho looked at the fighters. Mercer predictably sneered at him, but Paloma merely nodded.
The ringmaster raised his hands again, and an expectant silence dropped over the arena. Ever the showman, Cho glanced back and forth between the two fighters, drawing out the moment for as long as possible.
“And begin!” he yelled, and stepped back out of the way.
Mercer snapped up his sword and lunged forward like he was going to charge Paloma, but instead of moving out of the way, she simply lifted her shield and waited for him to come, as though she wasn’t worried about any attack he might make.
Her utter lack of fear, panic, and motion seemed to surprise Mercer, and he pulled up short and almost tripped over his own feet before he managed to right himself. Laughter rippled through the arena, and an ugly red flush stained Mercer’s cheeks. Not the start the crown prince wanted, and he didn’t appreciate the chuckles at his expense.
Mercer snarled and went on the offensive, lashing out with his sword. Once again, Paloma simply stood there and blocked his blow with her shield. Then she swung her mace, going on the offensive, although Mercer used his shield to block her blow.
And so the battle began in earnest.
Mercer and Paloma fought back and forth through the ring, hacking and slashing at each other with their weapons and blocking blows with their shields. It was an intense fight, and the two of them were evenly matched when it came to their skills. But as the fight dragged on, it became apparent that Paloma was stronger and had more endurance than the prince, and that he was going to wear out long before she did.
Mercer must have realized it too, because he changed tactics. He raised his sword as though he were going to swing it at Paloma again, but at the last moment he dropped his shield and snapped up his left hand.
The hot, caustic scent of his magic filled the air. I surged to my feet to scream a warning, even though I doubted Paloma would hear me over the continued roar of the crowd. But I was already too late.
Purple sparks erupted on Mercer’s fingertips, and he blasted Paloma with his lightning.
The bolt hit her square in the chest and threw her back five feet. Paloma lost her grip on both her mace and shield and landed flat on her back in the center of the ring.
She didn’t move after that.
Everyone in the bleachers leaped to their feet, and the noise grew more raucous than ever before. But I only had eyes for Paloma. Finally—finally—she pushed herself up onto her elbows. I let out a relieved sigh that Mercer hadn’t killed her outright with that blast.
But the Mortan prince thought he’d found a way to win, and he snapped up his hand and blasted Paloma with his magic again. And then again, and then again, until Paloma was hunkered down on her knees like a wounded animal. Worry twisted my stomach, but there was nothing I could do to help her.
“Why isn’t she morphing?” Zariza asked, still sitting beside me. “That’s the only way she can beat him now.”
“Paloma doesn’t like to morph in front of strangers,” I said.
“Well, she’d better do it now,” Zariza replied. “Because that’s the only way she’s going to keep him from killing her.”
Zariza was right. That first blast of magic had stunned Paloma, and Mercer easily could have stepped forward and sliced his weapon across her arm or leg, drawing first blood and ending the fight. But he hadn’t done that, and it didn’t look like he was going to stop blasting her with his magic until he had fried her to a crisp.
“Come on, Paloma,” I muttered, even though she couldn’t hear me. “Come on. Get up. Morph. Show that bastard how strong you really are.”
But she remained huddled on the ground, and Mercer kept blasting her with his lightning.
I looked over at Maximus, who gave me a thin, satisfied smile. I wondered if he had told Mercer to use his magic to try to kill Paloma. Probably.
Mercer must have thought Paloma was dead, or maybe he simply needed a break from using so much magic for so long, because he finally released his power. His purple lightning vanished, and he lowered his hand to his side.
A hush dropped over the arena, and all eyes fell on Paloma, who was still hunkered down on her knees, with her arms wrapped around her chest, and her head almost touching the hard-packed dirt.
“Come on, Paloma,” I whispered. “Get up. Morph.”
Her right arm twitched.
I blinked, wondering if I was imagining the small motion, but her right arm twitched again. And then her left. I drew in a breath. The hot, caustic stench of Mercer’s magic lingered in the air, but another scent was now floodin
g the arena, like a soft peony perfume mixed with just a hint of wet fur.
Paloma’s scent. Paloma’s magic. Paloma’s power.
My friend remained hunkered down on the ground, but she quickly grew larger and larger. Muscles bulged in her arms and legs, while the ones in her back strained against her fighting leathers. Her braided blond hair took on a bright golden sheen, and long, sharp black talons sprouted on her fingertips.
Paloma slowly lifted her head. Her amber eyes gleamed with a fierce light, while jagged teeth now filled her mouth.
Everyone in the arena gasped, including me.
Paloma climbed to her feet, now several inches taller than normal, her entire body hard, thick, and strong with muscle. She loomed over Mercer, who took a step back, then another one. Paloma stared at him a moment, then walked over and picked up her mace. Then she crooked her finger at the prince in a clear challenge.
Mercer froze, as though he didn’t know what to do, and a few titters of laughter rang out. The guffaws snapped the prince out of his stupor, and he raised his hand and blasted Paloma with his lightning again. But morphing had made her even stronger, and Paloma stood still and tall and absorbed this blast.
Mercer snarled and hit her again and again, but Paloma absorbed each and every one of his attacks. Finally, the Mortan prince ran out of magic. He lifted his hand to hit her again, but only a few sparks flickered on his fingertips. Paloma cocked her head to the side, a smile stretching across her face and showing all her many jagged teeth.
With a loud, thunderous roar, Paloma surged forward, raised her mace high, and smashed it down onto Mercer’s left arm. Perhaps it was my imagination, but I thought I heard several audible crack-crack-cracks as his bones shattered.
Mercer screamed and tumbled to the ground, clutching his arm to his chest and writhing in agony. Paloma towered over him, making sure that he wasn’t going to get back up, then held her mace out to the side where everyone could see it.
Several drops of blood—Mercer’s blood—oozed off the spikes and spattered onto the dirt.
“And we have first blood!” Cho’s voice boomed out, and he hurried forward, grabbed Paloma’s arm, and lifted it high into the air. “Our new champion! Paloma the Powerful!”
The crowd exploded. The cheers, yells, claps, screams, and whistles thundered so long and loud that they seemed to shake the entire arena. People also tossed crowns of white daisies, purple gladiolas, and blue laurels down from the bleachers, along with Bellonan pennants and small stuffed ogres. In seconds the trinkets covered the arena floor like a colorful, fragrant carpet.
Paloma bent down and picked up one of the stuffed ogres. Her long black talons gently curled around it, and she straightened and lifted it high overhead, along with her bloody mace.
The crowd roared even louder. My friend stood in the center ring, still in her ogre form, her eyes wide and a huge grin on her face, soaking up the attention. She had more than earned it with that performance.
“Paloma! Paloma! Paloma!” I started yelling her name over and over again.
Beside me, Zariza and Heinrich took up the chant, along with Sullivan, Serilda, Auster, and Xenia. Soon it had spread throughout the arena.
Down below, Paloma kept her spiked mace raised high in the air. She stared up at the royal terrace, and her gaze met mine. Paloma grinned at me, then dropped into a perfect Bellonan curtsy. That only made the crowd cheer even louder, especially me and the rest of the Bellonans.
Paloma the Powerful, indeed.
Chapter Twenty-One
The cheers and applause went on for quite some time before Paloma morphed back into her normal self and vanished into one of the arena tunnels. When she was gone, Cho signaled for the bone masters, who came forward, hoisted Mercer to his feet, and took him to be healed.
I looked over at Maximus, who was still in his seat, staring down at the arena floor with a stony expression. I drew in a breath, enjoying the hot, peppery scent of his anger.
Serilda stepped up beside me and handed me a glass of cranberry sangria. I clinked mine against hers.
“To Paloma,” I said.
“To Paloma,” she echoed.
We both took a long sip, enjoying our friend’s victory.
Now that the tournament was over, most people were getting to their feet and plodding down the bleacher steps. But two men were going against the flow and running up the steps as fast as they could—Mortan guards.
“Evie,” Serilda said in a low, warning voice.
“I see them.”
Serilda and I might have escaped from the Mortan camp, but the danger wasn’t over. Sullivan sidled closer to me, while Auster tapped Leonidas on the shoulder and gestured for the boy to stand.
Maximus noticed the guards, and he watched their approach with narrowed eyes.
Maeven also spied the two guards, and she frowned, realizing that they wouldn’t be moving so fast if they didn’t have important news. She went over to Maximus and started to say something, but her brother snapped up his hand, telling her to keep quiet. He never took his gaze off the guards.
Maeven’s lips pinched together, and she retreated a few steps, but I could smell her anger smoldering like a glowing ember that was trying to ignite into a full-fledged fire.
Nox was still sitting beside Maximus. He glanced up at Maeven and slowly, subtly scooted his chair away from the king. He didn’t know what was happening, but he didn’t want any part of it.
The two Mortan guards rushed onto the terrace. Unlike Nox, they didn’t have the good sense to stop and judge their king’s mood before approaching. Instead, the guards hurried forward, planting themselves in front of Maximus and cutting off his view of the arena below.
Maximus glared up at the two guards. “What do you think you’re doing?”
The men realized their mistake, and they both immediately dropped to one knee.
“Your Majesty, I apologize for the interruption,” one of the guards said. “But there’s been an . . . incident at camp.”
“What sort of incident?” Maximus asked.
The guard wet his lips and swallowed, as if nervous about delivering his news. I wouldn’t have wanted to deliver it either. Beside him, the second guard scrunched down, like he was a tortoise trying to tuck his head back inside his shell to keep it from being bitten off by some larger predator. Maximus, in this case.
The first guard wet his lips and swallowed again, but he forced out the words. “It’s your, um, pet strixes, sire. I’m afraid that they’ve all . . . escaped.”
Well, that was a diplomatic way of putting things.
Maximus’s face hardened. “What do you mean the strixes have escaped?”
“The cages are empty, Your Majesty. Somehow, the strixes escaped and flew away. We’ve sent guards on the older strixes after them, but so far we haven’t been able to recapture any of your . . . pets.”
Maximus tilted his head to the side and studied the guard, as though the other man were speaking some foreign language that he was trying to decipher. “And what about my other special pet?”
He had to be talking about the caladrius, judging from the way the guard’s face paled and from the sweat suddenly shining on his forehead.
“I’m sorry, Your Majesty, but it also escaped.”
The guard said the words in a rush and then grimaced, as though he expected Maximus to jerk forward and slap him.
The king remained in his chair, absolutely still and quiet, and the only visible sign of his anger was the muscle that kept tick-tick-ticking in his jaw. I could smell his rage, though, and the hot jalapeño scent seared my nose with its fiery intensity.
Nox was still sitting beside the king, with Maeven standing behind him. Neither one of them moved, and I imagined they would have even stopped breathing, if they could have. They might not be able to smell Maximus’s rage, but they realized exactly what was coming next, just like I did.
An eruption.
Maximus slowly rose to his feet. No
x stood up as well, although he scurried back to stand beside Maeven. The two guards stayed on their knees, both of them visibly sweating and shaking now.
“So all my strixes are gone, every last one of them, along with my other pet?” Maximus’s voice was perfectly calm, smooth, and even, but the scent of his rage grew stronger with each passing second, and I had to crinkle my nose to keep from sneezing.
The other royals, nobles, advisors, servants, and guards were now staring at Maximus. All other conversation had ceased, and everyone was waiting to hear what was wrong—and to see how he would react.
“Well?” Maximus bellowed, when the guards didn’t answer.
The first guard wet his lips yet again, and his voice came out as a low, trembling rasp. “Yes, Your Majesty. All your pets are . . . gone.”
Maximus stared at the guard, his amethyst eyes practically glowing with anger. His nostrils flared, and his hands clenched into tight fists, although no magic crackled across his knuckles.
The guard eyed the king’s fists. He swallowed again, then lifted his head and looked up at Maximus. “Don’t worry, Your Majesty. I’ve already sent the riders out on the older strixes with the usual nets and ropes. The other birds couldn’t have gotten far, especially since most of them are not yet fully grown.”
The guard reeked of desperation, and he spat out the words one after another, almost as if he were trying to find the right combination of sentences that would cool the king’s anger. He sucked in a breath and kept going. “We should be able to catch at least a few of them before the end of the day, but if we can’t, we can always send back to the capital for more—”
Maximus snapped up his leg and kicked the other man square in the chest.
The guard let out a loud, strangled cry and crumpled to the floor. With one hand, he clutched his ribs, which were probably broken, but he held up his other hand in supplication, silently begging for mercy.
Maximus studied him with cold, dispassionate eyes, then stepped up and kicked him again. And then again, and then again . . .
The Mortan king kicked his guard over and over, viciously driving his boot into the other man’s chest, arms, legs, even his face. The guard’s nose broke with a loud, audible crack that rang across the terrace like a clap of thunder announcing the full extent of Maximus’s rage.
Crush the King Page 29