City of Wind (Steel and Fire Book 4)

by Jordan Rivet

  They moved around the arena, never actually making contact. The Terror launched assault after assault, but Siv didn’t allow him to come within reach. After the first few attacks, Siv made a show of putting his knife away in his belt. The crowds jeered.

  Then Siv danced. He moved swiftly, even elegantly, as he stayed out of the Terrerack Terror’s range. They circled around and around the pentagon, and the Terror grew angrier by the minute. His face turned dark red, and he roared in frustration as Siv led him on a merry chase around the arena.

  “He moves well,” Siln said.

  Dara didn’t dare respond. Didn’t dare breathe. It would only take one slip, one misjudged step, and the Terror would obliterate him.

  Suddenly, Siv darted for the central obstacle, leaping across the moat to the island and hoisting himself up the skeletal castle. The crowds cheered as he balanced at the top, strutting like a cat along the narrow wooden beams.

  The Terror bellowed a curse and advanced toward the moat. Siv taunted him from atop his perch. A dull glint shone in his hand. He had taken out his knife again. That was a relief. The showing off made Dara nervous. It was time for Siv to finish this.

  Apparently, the Terror thought so too, because instead of crossing the moat, he dug his hands into the dirt piled beside it and pulled out a handful of fist-sized rocks. He proceeded to hurl these at Siv, who had all he could do to keep from falling off the castle as he ducked to avoid the rocks.

  The crowds hollered. Siv’s foot slipped, and he nearly toppled off the wooden structure. Dara leaned forward, heart sputtering like a candle. Siv recovered his footing—just in time to dive out of the way of another rock. Still he taunted the larger man and danced along the razor edge.

  The Terrerack Terror was getting angrier, his curses completely incoherent. The crowd began to grow restless. They shouted for the combatants to cross the moat and finish the fight. Siv shook his head, gesturing for the Terror to come at him.

  The Terror was too agitated to make a clean jump. He took an ungainly leap and landed on the edge of the little island, feet scrabbling against the edge of the trench as he tried to keep from falling. Dirt fell away from his boots as he dug his toes into the side of the moat and climbed onto the island, leaving deep scores in the muddy wall.

  While the Terror was busy trying not to fall into the ditch, Siv quietly climbed down from the wood-frame castle. When the Terror got to his feet at last, Siv was waiting. He landed a neat punch to the man’s jaw. The Terror toppled backward into the moat.

  The crowds leapt to their feet, screaming and cheering. Dara did the same, her legs shaky. He had won. And he didn’t have a scratch on him.

  She had to admire Siv’s strategy, the way he timed his taunts to enrage his opponent and then finished the fight with a clean blow. The Terror would have a nasty headache when he woke, but there had been no bloodshed at all. And the fight had been interesting enough to keep the crowds engaged.

  She was glad to see he could hold his own in the arena, but he wasn’t out of danger yet. Siv’s team was scheduled for a Dance of Steel today. He would face a group of five next, all armed with bigger weapons than either his knife or his fist.

  Siv turned at last to face their side of the arena. Dara waved frantically until he caught sight of her. A wide grin split his face, and he waved back. Flush with victory, he looked truly proud of his performance.

  Movement flickered near his ankle. Dara barely had time to shout a warning before a grubby hand grabbed Siv’s leg and pulled him into the moat.

  The Terrerack Terror was still conscious. The fight wasn’t over yet.

  The sound of fists meeting flesh echoed through the arena, competing with the screams of the crowd. Dara dug her fingernails deeper into her palms. She couldn’t see them. The moat was too deep. One of the fighters threw the other against the wall of the trench, and a huge chunk of mud gave way and slipped out of sight.

  Judging by the flailing limbs and the crunch of fist against bone, neither of the fighters had kept hold of their knives when they fell into the moat. It was a brawl, not a duel.

  The spectators grew hoarse, whipped into an even greater frenzy by the new development. It was hard to see the action in the ditch, but most people were too excited that the fight was still going on to complain. They drowned out any grumbles in a torrent of cheers.

  Abruptly, Siv’s head appeared above the edge of the trench. His lip was bleeding, and a pair of huge hands wrapped around his throat. The Terror held him up against the muddy wall of the moat, trying to choke the life out of him. Siv’s hands scrabbled at the vise around his neck, his face turning purple.

  Dara dug her hand into her pouch for the Firebulb. She’d promised to let him take care of himself, but he wasn’t going to die for the amusement of the crowd.

  Before she could draw the Fire from the metal and shoot it across the arena, Siv reached forward and dug his fingers into the Terrerack Terror’s eyes. The man bellowed in pain. His grip loosened, and Siv gasped in a breath. Dara did the same, as if she were breathing for the first time.

  Despite the pressure on his eyeballs, the Terror still didn’t release Siv entirely. He slammed him against the wall as hard as if he were made of straw.

  Siv held on to the Terror’s face. The Terror shoved him into the dirt wall again and again, but Siv kept digging at his eyes with his fingernails. The Terror roared, the sound shaking the very earth of the Steel Pentagon. Still, Siv held on, scratched, gouged. At last, the Terror released his grip, and Siv toppled out of sight.

  The Terror clapped his hands over his bleeding face, howling in fury. Before he could move more than two steps, Siv popped into view again and put a newly retrieved knife to his throat. It was over.

  When the Terror realized what had happened, he bellowed a curse and lurched away from Siv to climb out of the pit. Siv waved his knife above the rim of the trench, showing that he was still okay, as the announcer called out the results for those who couldn’t see the action.

  Siv turned to the dirt wall the Terror had been slamming him against and hauled himself out of the pit, moving with a little less alacrity than before. Dara released her death grip on the Firebulb at last, letting the power ease back into the metal. That had been too close. She didn’t much like watching him fight after all.

  Siv strutted along the edge of the little island, hamming for the crowd once more. He would have a swollen lip and a black eye—or two—but he had survived. He looked a little unsteady from the beating he’d taken before clinching the victory. The newly constructed island had taken a beating as well. The dirt had loosened considerably when Siv was being slammed against it. As he whirled on his heel, a huge section of the mud wall crumbled into the moat.

  Siv kept his balance and leapt lightly away from the patch of ground as it gave way. But it wasn’t his precarious position that caught Dara’s attention as the chunk of earth fell into the trench. The slide of the dirt revealed an impression in the island that had been carved out during the construction of the moat. It was as if there was a pocket of air inside it that the repeated battering with the Terrerack Terror’s heels and Siv’s body had broken open.

  Except that the pocket wasn’t filled with air. Dara stared, transfixed, as a fountain of Watermight spewed forth in the center of the arena.

  20.

  The Vent

  THE silvery Watermight spewed from the ground like water from a fountain, except with a lighter, liquid-gas consistency. Without the constraint of a whirlpool or the direction of a Waterworker, the magical substance burbled and swelled of its own accord. This was Watermight in its rawest, purest form. Dara’s body reacted to the rush of power like a twanged bowstring.

  “Is that—?”

  “A new vent,” Siln cried. “Quickly. Follow my lead.”

  He dove forward through the stands, clambering over the benches and spectators standing between him and the arena. A few people moved out of his way, but most were transfixed by what was hap
pening at the center of the pentagon.

  Siln wasn’t the only person in the audience who had figured out what was going on. Others were hurrying forward, knocking people out of the way. Suddenly, it was a mad dash of Waterworkers trying to lay claim to the power spilling out of the vent and filling the moat with silvery-white magic.

  Dara was more worried about Siv than the fresh Watermight supply as she followed Siln over the barrier. He was still on the island, staring in surprise as a dozen people—none of them pen fighters—charged toward him.

  He had the sense to climb onto the skeleton castle, getting himself a bit farther out of the way as the Waterworkers raised their hands and began calling streams of power toward them. Even the weakest ones wanted to collect as much as they could before someone claimed this vent.

  Siln was faster than most, and his eyes were already glowing silver-white by the time he skidded to a stop near the moat. He lashed a whip of Watermight toward the nearest Worker, a woman with wild red hair, a dress of jet black, and several knives strapped about her person. She defended against Siln’s attack with waving hands and vicious shrieks. She took control of the whip of Watermight, molding it with deft movements. Siln cursed as the power he’d thrown toward her settled in front of her in the form of a silver shield.

  But he was already calling more of the Watermight from the moat, spinning it faster than Dara thought possible. She gasped as a silver stream whipped toward her and forced its way between her teeth.

  Dara swallowed. Her first instinct was to fight it, but she knew Siln would push the power down her throat if she didn’t comply. He didn’t even look at her, directing three different attacks at other Waterworkers trying to establish themselves around the arena.

  Dara spluttered as she gulped down the power. The Watermight took hold in her body almost instantly. Angry at how Siln had forced the stuff down her throat, she managed to keep from coughing it back up again. She stood still for a few heartbeats as the power coursed through her, icing her bones and lending her strength.

  Battle raged around her, far more frantic than the pen fights had been. All the Waterworkers in the audience had been taken by surprise, and at least two of them looked as if they’d spent a few hours getting drunk in the stands before all this began. They lurched about, flailing razors of Watermight around, barely keeping their feet.

  Siln showed in a matter of seconds why Wyla prized his combat skills. He spun spheres of Watermight from his palms, sending them out to engulf the heads of his opponents. The spheres clung to their faces like raindrops capturing ants. Some managed to break the spheres or draw in the power, but at least one man panicked and sucked the Watermight into his lungs. Apparently, that wasn’t as safe or effective as swallowing it, because his eyes rolled back in his head and he fell to the ground.

  Dara didn’t know what to do. She reached instinctively for her Savven blade, but that wouldn’t be much help here. Neither would the bit of Fire in her belt pouch. Why couldn’t Wyla have started her combat instruction a few days sooner?

  She recalled when her father and Zage Lorrid had fought in the Great Hall. They’d used the Fire to create metal weapons. These Waterworkers couldn’t melt metal into spikes, but they could move things. Within minutes, they turned the arena into a churning sea as they lifted objects up on waves of power and hurled them at each other. They swept some opponents off their feet with fountains of silver and forced others to sink into waist-deep mud.

  Some Waterworkers had brought bodyguards with them into the ring, and these fighters bore the brunt of the Watermight attacks. Harming another magic wielder was a lot more difficult than drowning a mundane fighting man trying to protect his liege. Dara had barely gotten her bearings before a man flew across her path, borne on a narrow wave of power, and crashed into the wooden castle. Siv was still perched at the top, hanging on for dear life as the structure shuddered from the impact. She had to get to him.

  Dara fought for control of the icy torrent of Watermight in her core. She managed to seize it just as the first attack launched against her. A beam of wood the size of a man hurtled toward her on a violent wave. She raised both hands to protect her face, and the beam crashed into her with a sickening crunch. Splinters and Watermight rained down around her.

  Dara froze, fearing the bones in her arms had been shattered. But the Watermight coursing through her body made her strong. She felt pain, but the beam didn’t do as much damage as she had expected. She looked up to find the wild-eyed redhead staring at her in surprise.

  Dara took a step toward the woman, and a silver-white veil fell across her vision. She felt that incredible strength she had experienced when she’d tried to swim out of the whirlpool. Before she could think better of it, she closed the gap between them and lifted the woman into the air with her bare hands. The woman shrieked a curse as Dara heaved her across the arena. She tumbled end over end, red hair flying, came to a stop at the base of the railing, and lay still.

  Dara stared at her hands, awed at the way the Watermight made them supernaturally strong. She wondered what else she could do. Worry about that later.

  She quickly took stock of the savage melee raging in the arena. Siln hurled ice daggers at one of the more intoxicated Waterworkers, who threw them back with much less dexterity. Siln worked with an efficiency and grace that Dara would have admired in any duelist. She could certainly picture him skinning and filleting a salt adder in a matter of seconds. A pair of non-wielding fighters lay bloodied at his feet, with more darting away from him.

  The crowds beyond the barrier had thinned drastically. The Pendarkan masses may enjoy a good brawl, but even they knew when an altercation had the potential to boil out of control.

  Siv was still hanging onto the wood-frame castle as it teetered dangerously over the newly opened vent. Several combatants had used pieces of the frame as weapons in the fight. Siv would be lucky if the whole thing didn’t collapse. Dara charged toward him. She had to reach him before anyone mistook him for a Waterworker. This wasn’t his fight. It wasn’t really hers either. She was barely more than an apprentice.

  But as Dara hurried toward the center of the pentagon, a familiar figure caught her eye. Khrillin the Waterlord was striding across the muddy ground toward Siln, clad all in red. He hadn’t joined the fray initially. Now that some of the Waterworkers had taken each other out, he made his entrance.

  Siln was still occupied with the drunken ice-dagger thrower, and he didn’t see the Waterlord stalking toward him, quietly gathering a stream of Watermight from the vent. His eyes already glowed silver-white.

  Even in the chaos, Dara knew Wyla would hear of what she did here. If Khrillin defeated Siln, Wyla would know that Dara hadn’t stepped in to help.

  “Siln!” she shouted. “Look out!”

  She couldn’t draw on any more power herself, but she still had some in her wineskin. She drained it in one gulp and ran toward Khrillin, the Might coursing along her bones. The power gave her speed as well as strength. She barreled into the Waterlord, using the momentum to knock him off his feet.

  Khrillin cried out in surprise. Dara leapt up, not letting him grab her. She forced a jet of Watermight out of her fingertips and blasted the Waterlord at close range. He threw up his hands to protect his eyes. When he lowered them, a dangerous grimace stretched across his face. He stood.

  Dara darted out of his reach. The delay had been enough. Siln finished off the drunken Waterworker with an ice dagger to the heart and strode to Dara’s side. He spared her a brief nod before advancing to meet the Waterlord.

  Siln and Khrillin stared each other down. Watermight built around them as they each gathered mighty waves and prepared to do battle. Death danced in the Waterlord’s eyes, but Dara’s distraction had made him lose some of his reserve of power. His wave wasn’t building as quickly as Siln’s. He was going to be overwhelmed, and he knew it.

  Siln raised both hands, preparing to launch a devastating attack. Khrillin would be dead in seconds. Bu
t the instant before the power could burst from Siln’s hands, a figure darted between him and Khrillin, waving frantically.

  “Wait!” It was Siv. He stood directly in Siln’s way, hands raised.

  A memory flashed before Dara’s eyes: Siv standing before her father, a golden cage of Fire closing in on him. She hadn’t had the skills to stop that attack. All she could do was try to distract her father before he killed the man she loved.

  Dara’s heart squeezed tight. Siv was in danger again, and her magical skills were still inadequate. She couldn’t defeat her father’s Fire, and she couldn’t stop the Waterworkers either. Desperately, she ran forward and grabbed Siln’s arm.

  “Don’t hurt him!”

  “Get back.” Siln shook her off with a curse. She grabbed him again, digging her nails deep into his tattooed flesh. Siln ripped out of her grip, not even wincing at the deep gouges she left in his skin. He turned back to his adversary.

  But Siv’s action and Dara’s reaction gave Khrillin enough time to recover. He stepped out from behind Siv, eyes blazing white, and called more of the power from the vent. He raised his hands at the same time as Siln.

  Dara tackled Siv into the mud as the two attacks met in the middle with a savage crack. Her Watermight-strengthened body protected Siv from the worst of the impact as the waves of power crashed over their heads. Silver magic thundered down around them like hailstones.

  Not waiting to see if Siv was all right, Dara rolled off him and crawled sideways out of the conflict. He scrambled through the mud after her. When they were far enough away, they turned back to watch Siln and Khrillin duel.

  A mighty tempest raged across the arena. The few people remaining in the stands ooed and ahed as the two Waterworkers wielded their power against each other in a violent torrent of attacks and counterattacks, parries and feints. The glow of Watermight lit the pentagon as if a giant star had settled at its center.

  Siln and Khrillin were both expert fighters. It was clear there would be no easy victory here. Dara could barely breathe as she watched the Watermight contest. The sheer power was magnificent, and it drew her eyes like a lodestar. She yearned to be able to control a fraction of that brilliant storm of silver.