Bird of Chaos: Book One of the Harpy's Curse

by Susie Mander

  I was surprised. It was the first time had not called me Little Miss. I cocked my head, frowning. He pretended not to notice. I was about to say something when he turned me to face the yawning mouth of light. “Go get ’em.” I tried to ignore the pounding of the crowd just beyond the entrance. I focused my mind on my Gods’ Eye and slowed my breathing. I stepped into the arena.

  The stadium’s timber floor was covered in a thick layer of white sand taken from the seabed beyond Tibuta’s wall. The sun reflected off it straight into my face and I had to squint to see my opponent enter from the other side of the arena. It was the troll. It had to be her behind all that armour. She was enormous. Two long plaits of ropy blond hair hung from beneath her whalebone helmet. She pumped her spear in the air and the crowd went wild.

  I glanced up and saw my parents sitting in the shadow of their black-and-gold canopy. My mother’s crown was a slender piece of gold coiling into a pointed snake’s head. My father’s beard hung to his knees.

  The troll and I met in the centre of the arena, bowed, and then clipped our spears together in a sign of respect before moving back. We took the warrior’s stance. A gong sounded and we began. The fight was slow to start. I struck hard but she was quick to defend herself and my spear hit the centre of her shield. I had to jiggle it to release it. She waited until I had recovered my spear and we resumed our starting position. She thrust towards my hip but I spun out of the way. I came down from above but she brought her spear up and our weapons clashed overhead.

  A winner in the spear and shield event is determined by points based on hits—either to the body or elsewhere—defensive manoeuvres and overall form. It can be underwhelming for a spectator who does not understand the score system. Because of this, the crowd was restless. As far as they could tell, nothing was happening.

  My shield arm got heavier and heavier. Sweat dripped into my eyes. My opponent propelled her spear towards me but she had braced her end against her open palm so when it ricocheted off my shield, the momentum pushed her back and she stumbled. This was my brief opening. I threw my spear. It hit her armour square in the chest and fell to the ground. It was a winning hit. The gong sounded. The crowd thundered. We pulled off our helmets and, pushing the sweaty hair out of our faces, shook hands. I briefly waved to the crowd—I have never been much of a performer—and glanced at my parents to check they had seen my victory.

  I let Drayk help me out of my armour. While he peeled it from my sticky body I looked at the ceiling, conscious of every part of me tingling. The sight of him bending over to lay out my chestplate on the bench was enough to bring my heart into my mouth.

  “You did well,” he said in a tone that was so serious anyone would think I had lost.

  “I did, didn’t I?” No one could rip the smile from my face.

  He nodded. “Well done.”

  My second event wasn’t until that afternoon and I would have happily waited the day out with Drayk in our tiny, cold cell but I didn’t want to seem desperate, so as soon as I was dry, I ran my hand through my hair, laced up my sandals and told him I was going for a walk. To my delight, he seemed disappointed. “I’ll meet you back here before my next event,” I said and strolled nonchalantly out into the tunnels. My guards followed me but I had learnt to ignore them.

  I was climbing the stairs up to the stands when I saw Odell coming the other way. He was with a group of friends. He elbowed me as he passed. “Excuse me, highness,” he said with false remorse then kept walking. I burnt inside but could think of no witty rebuke. Instead, I had to let my guards ruffle him up a bit on my behalf.

  Aboveground, the tournament took on a completely different light. The stands were already littered with food scraps, lost items of clothing and betting chips. Everywhere were the colours of different islands: green and gold for Lizard Island, black and white for Tibuta Minor, burgundy for the Island of the Dead. Some people were watching the next pair of contestants in earnest, clasping their betting chips between their hands. Others weren’t watching at all but were talking among themselves.

  “Highness,” called a voice from above. I looked up to see a dark-haired young man waving at me. With the sun shining behind him it was difficult to see his face and I squinted.

  “Ruben, is that you?” I took the few steps up to where he was sitting. He was with two friends and they stood as I approached then took it in turns to bow and kiss my ring. I did my best not to blush.

  “This is Hemran,” he said, indicating a strawberry-blond boy with a cowlick, who grinned through his freckles. “And Samson—we call him Sam.” Samson waved briefly but he was already seated and watching the competition intently. “How have you been?” Ruben said and offered me a seat.

  In the two years since I had seen him Ruben had changed. It wasn’t physical: he was still handsome and he still had that princely air. But he was more relaxed, less arrogant. He no longer reminded me of a boy hoping to conquer a nation. His speech was no longer affected and his smile was genuine. He gazed over the arena while speaking to me, almost as if I wasn’t there. “You fought well. I was impressed.”

  “Thanks,” I said, licking my lips. I was surprised by how nervous I was. “Are you competing?” I said, hoping to deflect his companions’ attention away from me.

  He shook his head. “My mother won’t let me.” He did not seem embarrassed or ashamed by this admission and his indifference impressed me.

  “That’s a shame.”

  “Not really. Fighting isn’t my thing.”

  As he spoke I noticed Drayk coming up the stairs from the competitors’ cells. I fought the urge to call out and wave. He stood for a moment, leaning on the banister, watching a young boy and girl hitting sticks, as we call amateur spear fighting, before turning his back on the arena to search the crowd. I felt his eyes get close…I turned my attention back on Ruben. “So if fighting isn’t your thing, what is?” I said, glancing at Drayk to see if he had noticed me yet. He had.

  “I love argutans.”

  “Oh yes?” I said, positioning my body towards him. Though my eyes were fixed on his charming face I wasn’t really listening. I could feel Drayk watching me.

  “They are such magnificent creatures.”

  “They are, aren’t they?”

  “Do you ride?”

  “I do. Though not so much for pleasure. Only as part of my training.” I glanced down and Drayk had gone. I felt a stab of disappointment. I was tempted to chase after him but pride held me back. Then I saw Hero madly waving to me from across the arena. This was my opportunity to escape. “Will you excuse me? That’s my cousin over there. I better go before he falls off his seat.”

  Ruben chuckled. “It was a pleasure,” he said, standing and bowing.

  “Likewise.”

  My second event was over almost before it had started. I entered the arena with my twin blades to face…not the boy with fuzzy orange hair as I had expected but a willowy girl with hair like spun sugar wafting out from beneath her helmet. She was a fierce opponent, brave and determined, but it was clear she had not trained for as long or as hard as me. Her movements were a fraction too slow. She was not quite coordinated, which is disastrous in a style that requires your mind to split so you can focus on both swords at the same time. Within three movements I had raised my two blades and brought them slashing across from left to right, striking her in the hip and shoulder.

  I looked up to see my mother and father dutifully clapping.

  There was only a short break between my second and my third event so I remained in the cell with Drayk, neither speaking to him nor lifting my eyes from the ground. I was sitting with my arms slumped between my legs, visualising my next fight. This was my last event. All I had to do was win and I would go through to the next round as favourite.

  I tried to remain calm. Manna is the hardest fighting style. With no weapons to fall back on a combatant can rely only on her skill. There is no faking it.

  The boy popped his head around the corner
to tell me it was time. I nodded. Drayk walked me silently to the entrance and wished me good luck. I stepped into the arena for the third time to discover that my opponent was…my cousin Odell?

  Not him, I thought, cringing. If I lost to Odell I would never hear the end of it. My heart fluttered and I took a moment to calm myself, reciting words of encouragement.

  Manna fighting is done without armour, helmet or shield. The only clothing a manna fighter is permitted to wear is a close-fitting tunic and breaches. Her feet must remain bare. Odell’s tunic was paper-thin leather with iron scales like snake skin. Unfair but hardly something worth mentioning to the judges unless I wanted my cousin to claim I used a technicality to avoid fighting him. I looked down at my thin black linen tunic and cursed myself for not thinking to modify it.

  Odell’s spiky hair caught the wind and he grinned at me, beckoning me closer. I reminded myself that I had beaten Odell before. His was a sloppy fighting style. He had come to rely too heavily on his gift, failing to give his other skills the attention they needed. Still he was a good foot taller than me and far stronger, too.

  While we were still at opposite ends of the stadium I took a moment to glance up at the royal podium. My mother and father sat beneath their canopy. The nearby stalls were strung with the coloured flags of neighbouring islands. Below the podium was the judge’s box, then the musicians, then the minstrel. The crowd was a wash of colour. Odell pumped his fists and they dutifully clapped. I waved and they roared. Slowly we advanced until we stood a few feet from one another. “Are you scared?” Odell said.

  I shook my head, unable to form any words.

  “You should be.”

  He took a fistful of sand and threw it into my face. I put my hands to my eyes, cursing, and while I was blind he kicked me in the stomach, sending me onto my back. The crowd was furious. They were on their feet.

  Odell stood over me. “See, little princess. Today you’re going to taste defeat for the first time.”

  “Hardly,” I said, swinging around to take his legs out from underneath him. He fell hard. The crowd thundered. I glanced up and saw my mother and father standing, leaning close to the edge of the gallery.

  In a mock gesture of generosity, I offered Odell my hand. “No hard feelings?” He took it and before I could swing him around, wedged his feet against my hips then threw me over his head. I fell awkwardly on my side. Pain shot up my left arm. I could hear my people’s fury. I got up quickly and took the warrior’s stance: one palm out facing up, the other hand clenched in a fist by my head. Odell did the same. There would be no more theatrics.

  We circled each other. I had a bad habit of making the first move and Odell knew this from our previous confrontations so I fought the urge to go in quickly. I would wait and draw my enemy out. Odell was reluctant, waiting for me to strike. “Hurry up! Do something!” people screamed. It was late in the afternoon. They were drunk and bored. I kicked low hoping to get him in the knee. He blocked my foot with his wrist, taking hold of my leg and twisting me around. I was lucky. I was able to shake him off. They cheered.

  I glanced up. My mother and father were leaving their box.

  I kicked again, but this time without anywhere near enough energy and Odell easily stepped out of the way. I stumbled forwards. Glancing up, I saw one last flash of my parents’ gold-and-black gowns as they left the stadium. Then they were gone. For a moment I was completely bewildered. I could not believe they had left during my final fight.

  Odell punched me in the stomach. I managed to stay upright, but only just. He jumped and kicked, landing a blow on my shoulder. I recovered and kicked, hitting him square in the chest. He stumbled back and as he did, I spun and caught him from behind with the top of my foot.

  I was back. Yes, I was back in the game and I knew I could win.

  I was about to strike again when there was a piercing whistle. I ignored it and struck high with my fist, hitting Odell in the jaw. But the ear-splitting noise would not stop. It got closer and closer: eeep, eeep, eeep. It was right by my ear. I felt hands on my shoulder pulling me back. I tried to brush them away—“Get off me!”—but it was no use. A man in a leather vest pulled me off my opponent.

  I was vaguely aware of the enraged mob.

  “Stop!” the vested man bellowed and we broke apart. I was panting. Odell bent over and spat in the sand. I turned to see the senior judge, Eloyse Nathos, with her whistle hanging around her neck.

  “Disqualified!” She blew her whistle to accentuate her proclamation. The crowd moaned then began throwing gnawed corncobs and other refuse our way. Eloyse spoke quietly, almost apologetically, pointing to the far end of the stadium where Drayk was waiting for me. “Highness, you are disqualified. Leave the stadium immediately.”

  “You mean Odell, right?” I said cheerfully. I still believed there had been some sort of mistake. I brushed sand from my tunic. Odell had a stupid grin on his rodent face.

  “I will make it very clear for you. You are henceforth banned from all competition for the remainder of Berenice’s Festival. Before competing again in this tournament you are to submit a plea to the board of judges. You are awarded zero points for this round and I must add that I am very disappointed. You were the favourite. We had hopes you might take home the trophy.”

  I was getting impatient. My words were like short, swift jabs. “Don’t be absurd. I don’t even have a gift.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said in a voice that suggested she was anything but sorry, “I saw you use it.”

  “How could you when it doesn’t exist?”

  “I’ll admit, it was a faint glow, nothing spectacular, but I know what I saw.”

  I wanted to argue, I wanted to tell her how wrong she was, how completely and utterly wrong. But the crowd was getting restless. From the corner of my eye I saw a man climbing the partition around the arena. A group of soldiers rushed forward to pull him back. The judge followed my gaze.

  “Go now. Before they get really angry. If you would like to submit a complaint you can do so before sundown.”

  I shook my head, fury burning my cheeks. “You have made a terrible mistake,” I said and marched towards my corner of the arena.

  “I don’t make mistakes. Not about this.”

  I didn’t see the ice coming. I had my back to Odell and it struck me in the spot where the head meets the spine. My brain sloshed against my skull. My eyes bulged. I saw stars, my hands held out in front of me, the ground getting closer and then nothing.

  When I woke I could hear water dripping somewhere nearby. The sweet smell of moss told me I was underground. Above, the ceiling shook and I could hear the distant crowd rioting. I was on my back on the stone bench that ran around the edge of the cell. There was a single chair in the corner of the room and an iron gate near my feet. Otherwise, the room was empty. It was in the part of the competitors’ bunker used as a prison if the rest in Tibuta were full.

  “Are you awake?” said a familiar voice and I moaned. Drayk’s divine face swam into focus. “Oh thank the tides.”

  “I got disqualified,” I croaked.

  “That hardly matters,” Hero said. I blinked three times and realised he was sitting on a three-legged stool in the corner.

  Drayk snorted. “It’s not important now.”

  “It is. My mother wasn’t in the stadium.”

  The immortal frowned with incomprehension.

  “I’ll explain later,” I said, pushing myself onto my elbows, my head throbbing. “Tides, I feel awful.”

  “You’ll be glad to know Odell has been disqualified too,” Drayk said, helping me up.

  “What do you mean?”

  “After what he did to you,” Hero said.

  All I could do was blink at them. I was utterly confused.

  “He hit you in the back of the head,” Hero said.

  “With ice?” Drayk tried. When I said nothing he continued, “Do you remember anything at all?”

  I frowned. Where there should have
been memory there was only blackness. I searched and searched, getting more and more anxious, only to find…nothing. I shook my head. “I only remember being disqualified. What is that noise?”

  “The people have gone wild. It was your disqualification. Turns out they really like you. Do you honestly remember nothing?”

  I shook my head. My voice was a whisper. “I’m scared.”

  “Stay here. I’ll find Epoul.” Drayk left the room. I sat with my feet firmly planted on the ground. The stone floor swirled beneath me like a rapid. “Oh tides, I think I’m going to be sick,” I said and Hero sprang to his feet and helped me lie back down. A wave of heat washed over me. After a minute, the dizziness passed but my skin was clammy and cold. I adjusted the pillow only to discover it was Drayk’s cloak folded beneath my head. It was damp from my perspiration.

  Drayk and Epoul returned just as my breathing slowed to normal. A storm seemed to follow them in. Drayk’s arms were crossed in front of him and his face was creased with worry. “Hero, will you go and tell Verne’s parents she is safe? They will be worried about her considering.” He nodded at the vibrating ceiling. “Take Bolt. And whoever else you need to get through.”

  Hero nodded, glad to be given something important to do, and rushed from the room.

  Drayk hovered nearby, barely able to stay still. The healer held a candle in one hand and her case in the other. She sat beside me, equally gloomy. “How do you feel?” she said while rummaging in her case for flint and steel. She lit the candle, cupping it to make sure the flame didn’t go out, then held the light up to each of my eyes and tut-tutted. “Do you know your name?”