Dark Sun Rising

by K M Martinez

  “Looking a little peckish there, Victor,” Cori said with a laugh.

  Victor just grunted.

  When the referee gave the signal, Victor swung his axe in powerful blows toward Cori’s weak side—the side she already bled from. He didn’t let up, and the blows rang heavily on her sword, the clang of the metal resounding over the arena and the screaming from the crowd. Cori tried to roll away, but Victor kicked her in the legs, stopping her mid roll, and brought his axe down on her torso. The blade cut into her armor, but not all the way through.

  “Point Kale!”

  Cori looked at Victor’s blade, then at him. He removed it from her chest, then returned to the center of the pit and watched her get to her feet. She met him in the center and brought her sword to the ready.

  One more point for either, and they would win the match. One more point to move to the semis.

  The referee gave the signal to attack. Cori pounced, all speed and agility. As Victor went on the defensive, he wondered where she got her reserves. He had just pounded her two seconds ago. He twisted and sidestepped. He was a big man, too big to roll away, but he needed breathing room. He let her get close, grabbed her by her throat and threw her to the other side of the pit. The Kale side cheered, while the Ferus side roared at Cori to get back up.

  Cori had dropped her sword. It didn’t count as being disarmed, since it was the throw and not Victor’s weapon that caused it, but even so, Victor wasn’t one to let an opportunity go to waste. He moved quickly to where she lay on the ground.

  But as he raised his axe, she brought her leg up and uncoiled it toward his body, kicking him between his legs. Even through his cup, the kick hurt more than any strike that had touched him that day. He fell to his knees, gasping for air.

  The crowd moaned in sympathy before bending to laughter.

  He wouldn’t cover himself—he wouldn’t—not with everyone watching.

  From the corner of his eye, he spotted movement. Cori was crawling toward her weapon. Victor ignored the pain and grabbed her leg, pulling her away from her sword. Cori tried to shake him off, but his grip was too tight. She brought her other foot up and kicked him in the face so hard his helmet slid half off his head. Since he didn’t let go of her leg, she kicked him again, this time kicking his helmet clear off his head. He loosened his grip, and she slipped loose, crawling once more for her weapon.

  Victor grabbed his axe, and stood up just as Cori did. They both paused to get their breath. Both of them were bleeding, Victor from his nose and shoulder, Cori from her arm. The arena was deafening; it seemed as though everyone was screaming at them to fight.

  So they did.

  Victor’s axe collided with Cori’s sword so hard that sparks flew. The power from his strike pushed her back like he knew it would. He stabbed the point of his axe at her chest, but she ducked and came up underneath him. He saw her sword striking from below, and jumped back to avoid it.

  She attacked then with a form he’d never encountered before, and before he knew it, he was on the defensive, having a hard time blocking with his axe. He tried to grab her again, to push her away, but she was ready for him. She twisted her body into him and hit him in the nose with her elbow. He stumbled back, and she tagged him on the chest with her blade.

  “Point Ferus!”

  Victor spit blood from his mouth. “What? No finishing blow?”

  Cori took off her helmet. Her blue eyes were bright and triumphant. “You could’ve finished me,” she said with a smile, pointing at the mark where Victor’s axe had landed on her armor. “But you didn’t.”

  Victor handed his weapon to a Kale Novice. “That’s not a finishing strike, that’s a deadly strike. I’ve never killed anyone in the games, and I’m not about to start today. Plus, I didn’t want to make the wolves cry and start a blood feud. We’ve got enough going on as it is.”

  Cori looked up at the Kale section. “I heard about the attack,” she said, her jaw working. “I’m glad you’re all okay.”

  “Thank you. But we both know who you’re really glad to see is okay.”

  He returned to his seat. He’d been knocked out, but it was a good fight, one with honor, and with an honorable opponent. He could live with that.

  Chapter Eight

  Victor soon found out that while he had been fighting with Cori, the Fight of the Century had been taking place right here in the stands, between Charlotte and Jonah. According to Mel, Jonah had hysterically told Charlotte that no fiancée of his would be participating in any games that could result in the kind of injury that had befallen Blake Collier, and he actually demanded she pull out of the competition. Charlotte hotly retorted that she wasn’t his fiancée, that the whole point of Jonah being at the Agora in the first place was to see if he could accept this part of her life, this part of her family. Jonah screamed at her, telling her that a man with a sword sticking out of his leg was not fun and games, and why couldn’t she be more like Mel?

  That was when Charlotte left, crying, to get ready for her third-round match. Under the circumstances, it wasn’t surprising that she ended up losing handily. Luckily, it was against a Mayme descendant who took pity on Charlotte and didn’t go for blood. Much.

  As Charlotte left the pit, looking despondent, she strode right out of the arena. Jonah was at her heels, the argument ongoing.

  “I wish people would just leave me out of their shit,” Mel said, arms crossed over her chest. “And I wish you’d beaten Cori.”

  “She was quicker and stronger this year.”

  “Probably juicing,” Mel said.

  “Don’t say that. At least not where someone can hear you.”

  Any descendant using steroids or physical enhancements would bring shame and derision on their clan. It was nearly impossible to detect if a descendant was using, but the mere suspicion was enough for a descendant to be condemned and punished.

  “Fine. Sorry. I just… wish you could’ve beaten her. Not like severely or anything. Just, you know… knocked her out of the competition.”

  “If you want her beaten that bad, you shoulda fought.”

  Mel scowled, then, after a moment, smiled. “Why you gotta talk sense sometimes?”

  “Speak of the devil,” Victor said.

  Cori strolled over. Mel took one glance at her, then apparently decided the pit was more interesting.

  “Just came by to say good match,” Cori said to Victor, after looking sideways at Mel. “Assurgere.”

  “Assurgere,” Victor replied. “Mel and I were just talking about it.”

  “Oh really?” Cori’s tone changed, as it always did when it came to Mel. “Disappointed, Mel?”

  “You fought well,” Mel said politely.

  “I’m sure that didn’t stop you from hoping I would lose.”

  “The better fighter won.”

  Victor raised his eyebrows at his sister. Mel hadn’t even spared Cori a glance as she spoke. It was as robotic a response as could be, and it made Victor wish he were somewhere else. Mel was upset. Really upset. And he did not want to be caught in the middle of girl issues. He did not.

  Cori was looking perplexed. She was probably used to Mel deflecting her remarks with a devil-may-care attitude, and this polite robot was alien to her.

  “I’d say Assurgere in response,” she said, “but you wouldn’t know anything about that.”

  Low blow, Victor thought. But he kept his mouth shut. Mel didn’t need a champion; she could take care of herself.

  “I know,” Mel said, looking at the sandpit.

  “You know what?” Cori asked.

  “I know how you feel about me. I know you think I have no honor, and I know you believe I deserve everything I get, and everything I will continue to get from this day on. But I do have honor. More than you know. I honor myself, I honor my family, and I honor my clan, and it’s because I do that these will be the last words I speak to you.” Mel finally turned her eyes to the Ferus. “You voted against me. You voted against hon
or, and now you have none. Not to me. I will not say Assurgere to you. Not for as long as I live. Now you know me.”

  Victor was stunned—and angry. “You voted against us?” he said, standing. The murmuring of those behind him told him that they had overheard. This will spread quickly.

  Cori ignored him; her eyes were fixed on Mel.

  Mel had tears in her eyes; betrayal twisted her face. “You can go now. I’m done with you.”

  The dismissal was final.

  Cori looked bleak as she walked away. Victor could see that the red-haired woman was completely aware of what had just happened. Mel had, in a very old, traditional way, banished Cori from her life. The clan would follow suit, in solidarity.

  Cori O’Shea would no longer be a friend of Clan Kale.

  ****

  After the incident with Cori, Mel seemed to commit to enjoying herself. She cheered and yelled with gusto, regardless of who was competing. And then Charlotte came back and sat despondently next to her, and they both talked quietly for a long time, which was fine with Victor. He had very little interest in lady problems.

  Justine Wiley lost her third-round match to Anton Morel—just barely. She threw her helmet in disgust, and the Clan Kale section screamed and raved along with her. Thrash won his third-round match handily. Gabe got to the semis but lost to Thrash. He and Thrash shoved each other good-naturedly on their way to the Kale section.

  “Not bad!” Tío Jorge said, clasping Gabe and Thrash on the shoulder.

  “I didn’t embarrass myself that bad,” Gabe said.

  “You did well, cuz,” said Thrash.

  “You did very well, very well,” Tío Jorge said to them both. “I’m proud of both of you.”

  “What about my buddies here in losers’ corner?” Mel asked, arms outstretched to Victor and Charlotte.

  “I’m proud of them too,” said Tío Jorge.

  “Sure you are, Tío,” Charlotte said with a smile, her good humor returning.

  “I am,” Tío Jorge insisted. “Every time I see you in Kale colors, every time you stand up to represent us, I stand proud.”

  Victor was hard-pressed not to feel pride at his uncle’s words.

  “Thank you, Tío,” Charlotte said.

  Victor saw that Mel was affected by Tío Jorge’s words, but was none the worse for it.

  “Now Thrash, you’re in the finals again,” said Gabe. “Just need to find out who you’ll be fighting against.”

  Everyone turned to the pit, where Anton Morel and Cori O’Shea faced each other.

  “Who would you like to see win?” Gabe asked.

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Thrash. “I dislike both, and they’re both outmatched against me.”

  Charlotte made a face at him.

  “What?” Thrash said, fluffing his hair. “You know it’s true.”

  Charlotte just shook her head.

  “I wish you could summon up this kind of confidence when you’re around men you’re attracted to,” said Mel, “instead of coming off like a fish out of water.”

  Thrash stuck out his bottom lip.

  “What?” she said innocently. “You know it’s true.”

  They all sat forward as the match began. Cori collided with Anton with a ferocity Victor had never seen from her. Her sword swept in arcs and strikes, shifting from form to form so quickly he couldn’t keep up. Anton could hardly keep up either, and Cori’s first point came from a hard blow to Anton’s shoulder that sent him to his knees.

  “Point Ferus!”

  Instead of backing up, giving Anton space, and moving to the center of the pit, Cori savagely kicked Anton in the face. The Janso fell onto his back and threw his hands over that horrendous face guard.

  The crowd erupted, except for the Kale side, which stayed quiet.

  Anton slowly got to his feet and dazedly walked to the center of the pit. The referee gave the signal to fight, and again Cori attacked with an unending onslaught that drove Anton to the edge of the pit. He tried to push for the offensive, but Cori easily deflected his strikes and cut him on the back of the knee.

  “Point Ferus!”

  Blood streamed down Anton’s silver armor. He furiously wiped at it, then charged at Cori, tackling her. But the red-haired woman easily used his momentum to throw him off of her, and he flew through the air like a crash test dummy before landing hard on his back in the sand.

  He shot back up and started to charge her again, but the referee intervened and demanded they move to the center.

  On the next exchange, Cori once again took the upper hand. Her quickness and ferocity forced Anton down to his knees. He rolled away desperately. Victor knew Anton was a dirty fighter, and sure enough, Anton tried his damnedest to sully it up. He tried kicking, grabbing, tripping. He tried to throw sand in Cori’s eyes. His antics only infuriated her. She struck the handle of her sword against his sternum, and Anton doubled over, his hand to his chest. Taking advantage, Cori swung her blade, striking his sword so hard that it was knocked from Anton’s hand.

  The entire arena exploded when the blade hit the sand, the Ferus side loudest of all. They drowned out the referee declaring Cori the winner.

  Victor wanted to cheer along with the other clans, but loyalty kept him quiet, along with all the other Kale descendants.

  Cori turned toward the Kale section and stared hard at Mel. Then she pointed her sword at Thrash.

  Thrash rose nonchalantly from his seat, put on his helmet, grabbed his sword, and walked toward the center of the pit.

  Anton stalked angrily from the arena.

  As the fighters got into position, Victor noticed his grandmother watching them with an unusually intense, almost concerned look. It seemed out of place. She normally relished watching these matches.

  “This isn’t going to be an easy win for Thrash,” Gabe said.

  Victor turned toward his brother. “You don’t have faith in our cousin?”

  “I do, but Cori is fighting at a high level. She’s always been a great fighter—hell, she’s gotten to the finals three out of five years—but after what I’ve seen here today… she’s going to be a tough out.”

  Victor remembered her heavy blows and accelerated speed. Gabe was right.

  The referee gave the signal, and Thrash attacked Cori with Floating Rose Petal, a highly complex sword form involving lunges. Cori was on the defensive, but she blocked Thrash deftly and confidently as he attacked from odd angles. Then she turned the tables, going on the offensive with that strange sword form. It was savage and raw, but Thrash was quick and fluid like a dancer. He wouldn’t let her dictate his movements. Both fighters exchanged for quite a bit before Thrash tapped his sword on her leg.

  “Point Kale!”

  Thrash and Cori exchanged words. Victor was too far away to hear, but judging by the fighters’ demeanor as the next exchange began, whatever they’d said had lit a fire under them. Cori attacked with ferocity, but unlike in her match with Anton, she was under control, more focused on getting her points than taking Thrash’s head off.

  Thrash stabbed his sword toward her chest, but Cori deflected the attack and tagged Thrash on his shoulder.

  “Point Ferus!”

  Cori and Thrash took turns scoring points after that, but soon Thrash had fallen behind three points to four, and he was fighting for his life. Victor was sure his cousin would never admit it, but he knew that Cori had surprised him with her strength and speed. Thrash never fell behind.

  Thrush spun and attacked in quick succession. It was a beautiful dance. A beautiful, deadly dance. He took a risk, exposing his back, and Cori swung at the opening, but Thrash blocked the attack blindly, deflecting Cori’s sword up over her head, then spun around and scored a hit on her stomach.

  “Point Kale!”

  The Kale side exhaled in relief before sucking in air to yell in approval. Victor screamed with the rest, but no one was louder than Charlotte, who stood behind him yelling at the top of her lungs.

  The r
ef had to insist the competitors stop fighting and move to the center of the pit. Thrash waited in the center for Cori, who was taking her time getting into position. When at last she did, the crowd grew silent in anticipation.

  The next point would bring the winner of weapons Decerto.

  The referee gave the signal, and the silence ended.

  The crowd exploded with noise. The fighters circled each other, predators sniffing out weakness. The evening was now early morning, the Devil’s Hour. Only bad things happen at this hour, Victor thought, but he shoved the thought away and hoped and prayed for his cousin to win. Those without honor deserved to lose.

  Thrash flipped his sword in a flamboyant fashion, his cockiness revived. Come here, he seemed to say. Come here and meet my blade.

  So Cori did. Neither fighter backed down. They stood at the center of the pit, circling to the right, then to the left, but never backward. Not an inch was given. It would have to be taken, and the first one to take it was likely to win.

  Score, Goddammit!

  But Victor’s wishes and prayers went unanswered. Cori pushed forward, and Thrash stepped back. It was just an inch, but it was enough, and at that second Victor knew Thrash was in trouble. Cori must have realized it too, because she pushed with everything she had, forcing Thrash back further. Thrash spun away from the onslaught, but Cori was on him, not allowing him the breathing room he sought. He deflected her blows, but he was clearly tiring, and Cori’s onslaught was unyielding, her stamina seemingly siphoned from an unending source. With each attack, her blows got closer to reaching their mark.

  And then it happened. Thrash had again spun away from her onslaught, and Cori was on him, the two dancing in the center of the pit, Cori leading and Thrash following. But Thrash was nearly spent, and when Cori picked up the pace, he couldn’t keep up. Cori swung her sword down with both hands like an axe. Thrash deflected it, but still it caught him on the shoulder and sent him to his knees.

  “Point Ferus!”

  The Ferus side roared, jumping and clapping, then started the chant: “Assurgere! Assurgere! Assurgere!”