Blazewrath Games

by Amparo Ortiz

  I wish I could hug her. “Thank you so much, Samira. Go see a doctor again. Love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  I leave the bathroom and hop on my bed, ignoring the dragons’ song. I want to save the Cup at all costs, but I’ve been missing a strategy. Samira is in charge of figuring out how the Hydra and the Pluma de Muerte serve the Sire’s true purpose. I’m in charge of following the Sire’s orders and kicking Russia’s ass. But as I lay flat on my back, I think about how the Hydra and the Pluma de Muerte don’t seem to have anything to do with the Cup. The Sire only cares about breaking Un-Bonded dragons out of sanctuaries, and if he wanted the dragons competing here to be free, he would rip their contracts apart and send them back home with their riders.

  Their riders …

  I sit bolt upright. The Sire is the first dragon in history to break his Bond. Every dragon in this tournament is Bonded, though. The Sire wished for your teammates to be in the Cup because he was curious of their dragons’ magic, President Turner had said. What if this is about more than magic? What if the Sire’s also studying the strength of the dragons’ loyalty to their riders?

  What if he wants to break their Bonds, too?

  I fall on my back again. I don’t have any proof to back this theory up. I don’t even know how to start collecting it. All I have is a sad dragons’ song echoing around me, and a death threat looming over my team’s heads if I lose the first match.

  Nobody is going to die because of me.

  On a dreary winter’s night in 1962, Perry Jo Smith had a dream about dragons battling one another for a golden cup. He’s described it as “a cinematic experience in which riders and their steeds performed tricks, scored goals, and breathed fire so hot I actually woke up sweating!” Smith was on the verge of announcing his retirement from football, but the thought of spending his days sipping tea on his porch left him disillusioned. This prompted him to brainstorm further, ending up with what would later become the most daring sport in world history. “I wanted to watch magic happen,” Smith has said, “but no one would require a wand for it. Young athletes are magic themselves. They are far more powerful than most people give them credit for.”

  —Excerpt from Harleen Khurana’s A History of Blazewrath Around the World

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  TEN MINUTES BEFORE THE IBF ESCORTS ARRIVE, THE DRAGONS stop singing.

  They’ve spent the past two days belting out their sad song. None of the riders get a straight answer as to what happened, though. Since the dragons are too young to string sentences together, they flash images in their riders’ minds, but most are of total darkness. When probed as to what they represent, the dragons don’t even have their usual one-word replies. It’s like they don’t have the magical strength yet to explain what’s going on. Their emotional states are back to their peaceful norms. Daga even tries to play fetch with Luis as a warm-up.

  These steeds are ready for our match in the afternoon.

  “What are you watching?” Luis asks as he sidles up next to me in the SUV. We’re both decked out in the black-silk tracksuits Marisol designed for us. She’s placed our uniforms in garment bags in the trunk. “More stuff about the skull carriage?”

  “No. It’s all Andrew this and Andrew that.”

  I hide my phone in my pocket. Since I can’t tell Papi or Samira about my Bond-breaking theory, I’m Googling on my own. The same info on the Sire keeps appearing. Nobody knows how he destroyed his Bond with Edward Barnes. The leap from inviting a human to be his rider and seeing him as the enemy is a long one, with no connecting bridge in sight. And there’s nothing on whether a Gold Wand can rupture the Bond, either.

  What if I’m overreacting? What if that’s not why the Sire’s monitoring us?

  We arrive at the stadium to the usual rabid fanfare and silent protesters. I’m swept inside too fast again, but I catch Mrs. Endo with her same sign from before. IBF staff escort us to the box seats on the left side of the stadium. Glass walls wrap around the room in a 360-degree view, locking spectators in chilly air-conditioning. Endless food platters and refreshments have been placed on tables at the far end. The seats are plush white leather with gold trimming; a cup holder that could easily fit two water bottles is available on every single armrest.

  Athletes get the first few rows of seats to themselves. The rest are reserved for VIPs, press, and select staff members. Headmaster Sykes is chatting it up with a group of adults wearing Foxrose Academy blazers. Probably professors. Ambassador Haddad is also fraternizing with people wearing MEDIA tags. Noora Haddad is sneaking pictures of everyone without bothering them. I don’t see President Turner. Hopefully, he’s in a meeting or greeting people elsewhere. The thought of him suffering any form of Sire-inflicted pain makes me want to smash the glass walls.

  As the teams start filing in, I throw a quick glance behind me. Andrew is at the head of Scotland’s line. He doesn’t seem the least bit tense. Hopefully, that means he hasn’t suffered the Sire’s wrath. I keep walking and saying hi to total strangers. Lots of people talk to Andrew, too, but he’s not as enthusiastic. He mostly listens and nods. Maybe he’s dead tired, or he’s not in the mood to socialize. Once he’s left alone, he heads for the first available seat.

  He ignores me just as much as I ignore him.

  President Turner shows up ten minutes later. He greets everyone with a handshake, and when he gets to me, his smile is smaller than ever. I try to convey that I’m going to destroy the Sire’s whole life with my own smile, but the president silently saunters off to the next person.

  At 9:00 a.m. sharp, the match between Zimbabwe and China kicks off.

  The sand-colored Pangolin dragons from Zimbabwe and the burgundy-scaled Shăndiàn dragons from China are going berserk on the field. Their abilities are even more impressive live than on television. Shăndiàn dragons have two propellers: one for fire, one for lightning. They alternate between flames and bolts throughout the game, singeing and zapping their opponents. The Pangolin dragons are way smaller and can’t shoot lightning, but they are amazing. They curl their whole bodies into balls mid flight, slamming into the Shăndiàns on their sides. Nine times out of ten, the Chinese team gets knocked off course and loses control of the Rock Flame.

  Wataida Midzi is a sight to behold. He charges into his opponents and snatches the Rock Flame without fear. But Onesa Ruwende and Aneni Karonga are on another level of awesome. The Blockers fight like they have everything to lose. Not once does Onesa let Mei Wang, the Chinese Runner, get past her. Two hours later, Team Zimbabwe unleashes the dragonfire into the sky first. Confetti explodes all over the stadium as Zimbabwe gets crowned the winner.

  “Damn it,” Luis says. “If we beat Russia, we’re playing Zimbabwe in the next match.”

  “When we beat Russia,” Victoria corrects him.

  I clap as if everything is fine. I grab lunch at catering, mingle some more, and celebrate when Team Zimbabwe reenters the room. I congratulate Team China on a great game, too, and try super hard not to smile when I notice Kirill and Edwin sitting next to each other.

  At 3:00 p.m., Manny tells us to hit the locker rooms so we can change into our uniforms.

  “Remember your instructions,” he says. “Leave it all on the field.”

  I exit the box seats with my teammates, ready to show the world what I’m made of. Regardless of what the Sire has asked me to do, I have to remind myself how huge this moment is for those who are looking at me. It’s still huge for me, too, but for more reasons than just having my only dream come true. Today my first Cup victory won’t be a wild, faraway hope.

  It’ll be the only thing I can guarantee.

  MARISOL MAKES SURE OUR HELMS AND PADS ARE SAFELY IN PLACE, complimenting us every five seconds. She even retouches our makeup. Manny oversees the process like a bored fly on the wall. Joaquín, on the other hand, checks us a million times and asks how we’re holding up.

  “We’re all right,” Héctor tells him with the ease of a seasoned c
hamp. “We have every reason to be all right. It doesn’t matter why we’re here. We’re still making history today.” He puts out a hand in front of us. “This isn’t for the Sire or anyone else. This is for us. For Puerto Rico.”

  Victoria rushes to place her hand on top of his. “For Puerto Rico.”

  Génesis, Gabriela, Luis, and Edwin all do the same, so of course I mimic them. They yell out, “For Puerto Rico!” as if they’re all one voice, but I whisper it instead.

  I don’t want to win for the Sire, but I’m not losing and getting us all killed. Or worse: tortured to live another day with a reminder of who’s in charge. I have to make it to the top of the mountain first. This isn’t only for Puerto Rico anymore. All our lives are at stake.

  Staff fetches us a few minutes later. We’re taken to a smaller wait zone on the first level. Our team’s dragons are back at the upper level. We’re arranged in a specific order for our march onto the field. Héctor is first. Victoria, Luis, Gabriela, Génesis, then Edwin. I’m last in line. Team Russia is waiting on the opposite end of the stadium.

  At 4:00 p.m., Jeffrey Hines’s voice booms from the loudspeakers.

  “We welcome you all again to the twenty-seventh Blazewrath World Cup! The Round of Sixteen continues with two of this year’s most lethal teams! First to enter our field is the veteran of the two. This team placed third in the previous Cup, but they’re back to bring home the glory. All the way from Eastern Europe, let’s hear it for Russia!”

  The applause is deafening. While a raucous chant of “Russia! Russia! Russia!” sweeps the stands, I see the human players in their single file. The captain’s Zmey Gorynych steed flies out behind them, followed by the other five dragons. All three heads roar and bite at the air. Each head is the same length and the same width, with matching eyes that can melt steel with their intensity alone. Their emerald scales are a spectacle under the sun, glinting just enough to make me question whether they’re actual scales or gems superglued to their skin. Team Russia halts once they get to the referee, with the dragons hovering above their respective riders.

  Jeffrey Hines says, “Next up, the International Blazewrath Federation is proud to announce this team’s debut! They’re the first Caribbean team to compete in a World Cup. At just two years old, their dragons are the youngest in Cup history. Put your hands together for Puerto Rico!”

  A staff member gives Héctor the cue to walk out. We all follow him to the field.

  Titán glides out of the building with the kind of roar that stops hearts.

  I trip on my own feet. He’s never roared like that before. Esperanza mimics him, then Daga and Puya and Rayo and Fantasma. All six are lapping it up.

  The applause at the opening ceremonies is nothing compared to this. There are more panderetas today, more Puerto Rican flags, and flashing lights. The crowd starts off chanting my country’s name, but it’s soon replaced with another chant: “¡Boricuas! ¡Boricuas! ¡Boricuas!”

  Héctor raises his fist as a show of solidarity and gratitude. Luis blows kisses and throws the occasional peace sign, but the rest of us are stoic soldiers, marching as one.

  Kirill has the silliest smirk on his face as we approach the referee. I catch him winking at Edwin before he faces the stands. I also catch Edwin blushing up a storm.

  The Zmey Gorynych dragons glare at the Sol de Noches during their descent. Each Sol de Noche positions itself behind its respective rider, tucking its wings in upon landing.

  The referee says, “Riders, on the field. Runners, wait by the starting line. When your team’s Striker tosses the Rock Flame through the goal, you may race up the mountain. The game ends when the Iron Scale reaches the top. Questions?”

  No questions.

  “Captains, shake hands!”

  Héctor and Kristina Ivanova do as he says.

  The ref then gives me an Iron Scale. This is my first time holding the real thing, and even though it looks just like the replica I’ve trained with, this one feels a little heavier. It shines a bit brighter, too. Or maybe I’m not thinking straight from all the chanting and flashing lights? Either way, I’m holding an official Iron Scale because I’m an official Runner, and I’ve never been more tempted to immortalize any moment in my life with a selfie. My heart’s going a mile a minute. If Papi’s watching, I know I’ve finally made him proud. I’m proud, too, even though my circumstances suck. With a deep breath, I attach the Iron Scale—my Iron Scale—to my belt.

  “Runners, to the starting line! Riders, mount your steeds!”

  While my teammates go to their steeds, I head to the starting line. The Russian Runner, Ziven Belinsky, matches my pace with five feet between us. We bend our knees, angle our bodies to the foot of our mountains, and keep our traps shut while twelve dragons soar to the sky. Titán and the others have stopped roaring, but the intensity in their eyes hasn’t dimmed.

  This is their battleground. This is the end of whoever tries to beat them.

  Get to the top first, Lana. Your team is counting on you.

  The referee stays on the sand, but he’s holding up the Rock Flame, aiming it between Esperanza and the Russian Striker dragon. With a blow of his whistle and a wave of his Silver wand, the Rock Flame shoots up like a rocket.

  Kristina Ivanova grabs it before Victoria.

  Crap!

  Just as Kristina pivots her dragon toward the goalpost, the Russian Chargers sweep in front of Luis and Gabriela. Puya slams into the two Zmey Gorynych at once. He and Gabriela are sacrificing themselves already. They’re locked in a dance of wills as Puya rams into them, first one Charger dragon, then the other, narrowly missing their fangs every time. Luis and Victoria hunt down Kristina, but they’re too slow. Kristina hovers in front of Héctor within seconds. A complicated series of dives and swerves ensues. Once the Zmey Gorynych has managed to trick Titán into diving, Kristina tosses the Rock Flame to the goal.

  Héctor races down the length of Titán’s tail, then vaults himself into the air.

  He grabs the Rock Flame.

  I raise a fist in the air. “Yes!”

  Titán’s back cushions his fall, and Héctor throws Victoria the Rock Flame. She zips past the Russian Chargers while Luis and Gabriela keep them at bay. Victoria makes it to the goalpost. Puya and Daga are clobbering the Russian Charger dragons, despite having fewer teeth and less firepower. It’s a bloodbath without the blood. The Russian Keeper is on high alert as Esperanza weaves her way toward him. She dives, teasing the Zmey Gorynych to follow her, but only two of its heads try to bite her. The one that remains upright is squaring off against Victoria. She swivels as if to toss the Rock Flame.

  One of the Russian Charger dragons knocks Esperanza off course.

  Victoria loses her footing, dangling on Esperanza’s side, latching on to her saddle for dear life. The Rock Flame falls from her grasp. With a quick jerk, Esperanza pulls Victoria back up, but it’s too late. She’s lost the Rock Flame to Kristina again.

  Come on, come on, come on!

  Kristina swerves back to Héctor, faster and harder than before. This time, she’s successfully evading Luis and Gabriela, who both are deep in battle with their Charger opponents. Victoria’s too far away to stop Kristina, so she’s a free agent all the way to the goalpost. Héctor and Titán brace themselves for a second Kristina attack. She’s making her dragon do all sorts of twists and turns to get Héctor out of the way, but Titán is frozen in place.

  Kristina’s dragon whips its tail under Titán’s legs, scooping him away from the goalpost.

  Héctor gets tossed to the side, but not hard enough that he falls off his steed. Just hard enough to get separated from where he’s supposed to be.

  Luis and Gabriela are getting their butts—maybe even their souls—kicked. Victoria’s gaining speed, but she’s still too far. At long last, Kristina has a clear shot. I’m standing on my tiptoes, clutching both hands under my chin. Kristina throws the Rock Flame toward the goal.

  CRACK!

  Esperanza ma
terializes right in front of the goalpost.

  Her tail has been set ablaze. Smoke clings to her scales and horns.

  She’s Faded inside the stadium.

  Victoria is still in her saddle, grabbing onto the Rock Flame.

  Oh, my freaking God! She can Fade with her rider on top now!

  “It’s a miracle! Esperanza has Transported herself and her rider to the opposite end of the stadium!” Jeffrey screeches. “What is this magic?!”

  The clapping and screaming won’t let me listen to my own thoughts. I can’t do anything other than watch Kristina and her Zmey Gorynych cower before Esperanza, diving out of her way as she whips her burning tail and weaves her smoky body forward. I’m a shaking mess while Esperanza barges through the Russian Chargers, rolling them away like bowling pins, then reaches the goalpost for the second time. She and Victoria work together to coax the Russian Keeper out of his station, mixing it up between tail whips and harsh pummels. With one final shove, the Zmey Gorynych is bumped out of the way, and its rider goes along with it.

  Victoria tosses the Rock Flame through the goal.

  “Puerto Rico runs the mountain first!”

  Jeffrey might as well have yelled the entire audience just won a billion dollars.

  The referee blows his first whistle for me. I get into position. The fact that I got the head start makes me question how the Sire will react to Esperanza’s Fade. Did Joaquín tell President Turner about it? Does the Sire know? What if he ordered Esperanza to use her ability as a way of testing the Bond? To see if these dragons would do something that excludes their riders?

  The second whistle goes off.

  I run up the mountain. Thankfully, this sand is heaven under my boots.

  Wings flutter to my left. Kirill’s dragon appears from behind a boulder. All three heads spray fire at the same time. I’ve never been to hell, but this must be a billion times hotter. I’m sweating from every pore as I bolt harder than ever. The fire nips at my heels. Once the flaming shower ends, I stick to the path, which is sloping into sharp, narrow curves. Artem’s dragon is waiting for me farther ahead. Yet again, all three heads attack. More sweat. More panting.