Breath of Fire

by Amanda Bouchet

  I duck, plastering myself to the top of my snake’s head and sucking in a sharp breath when my own knife grazes my left shoulder blade, leaving a stinging line of heat. The knife lands at the Metal Mage’s feet.

  Rage wells up in me. She’s got quite a collection. Time to take it back.

  Thump! Thump! Whoosh!

  I look toward the battering sound and see the Cyclops swing its giant club at Jocasta. She darts out of the way, but it keeps coming, forcing her toward the wall. The Cyclops feints, she jumps the wrong way, and it nearly crushes her against the barrier. She stumbles. Behind the enormous creature, Griffin and Flynn bellow like madmen, trying to attract its attention. Carver is closest to her, and he races toward Jocasta.

  I cry out just as Carver throws Jocasta aside. The Cyclops’s club arcs down with monstrous force, catching Carver in the chest. He flies back and then crashes into the stone wall. He crumples to the sand, unmoving, and my heart comes to a complete standstill. There’s no way he could take a hit like that without severe damage. Or worse.

  Screaming, Jocasta flaps her arms and runs, drawing the Cyclops away from Carver while Griffin and Flynn swerve between its legs, hacking at tendons with weapons they drew the moment the Metal Mage turned her back.

  Knowing he’s of no use to me in his current state, Kato lopes over to Carver with a limping stride. With his mace in his left hand, he stands guard over his friend, his eyes never leaving the hulking creature shaking the arena with its every step.

  My snake and I are practically on top of the Metal Mage now, close enough to see the sweat on her brow and the fear in her eyes. With a swipe of her hand, she sends the weapons she gathered flying at us with enough force to penetrate hard scales. The serpent hisses. Its whole body jerks, but I don’t let it stop. My will is its will, and until it’s dead, the snake will obey me, no matter what.

  The Metal Mage calls her weapons back, but we slither forward with a burst of speed. My snake throws its head back, nearly dumping me on the ground, and then strikes. The next thing I know, the Magoi woman’s legs are sticking out of its mouth, the whole upper half of her body stuffed down its gullet. The snake’s throat muscles pulse beneath my thighs, working her down. She disappears little by little, her struggles and muffled screams vibrating underneath me until she gives one final kick and then goes still.

  My stomach contracts on a wave of nausea. “Good snake. I’ll never forget you.” That’s for damn sure.

  I’m about to set the poisonous serpent on the Cyclops when the tubular body underneath me turns to dust. The snake’s life spark snuffs from my mind in a breath-stealing, brain-jarring, ripping second that leaves me reeling from the savage disconnection.

  I fall six feet to the ground and land next to a dead woman. Sharp, blinding sparks burst behind my eyes. Pain thumps between my ears, expanding to encompass my entire head and then my body. Groaning, I try to crawl back from the venom-drenched Metal Mage, but I’m disoriented and can barely move. A shadow creeps over me, and then the Magoi kicks my side with cracking force, sending me spinning into the female’s disintegrating skin. I gasp, pain pounding along my ribs. The exposed skin down the side of my arm burns against the Metal Mage’s body.

  Black boots enter my blurred vision. Seeing a dull glint, I grope for one of the blades the Metal Mage hurled at the snake, but the Magoi kicks the dagger out of reach.

  I squint up at him, grimacing in pain. The two raw spots on his wide, bare chest are already healing over. One look at his expression tells me he hopes he can kill me slowly.

  “When I first saw you, I thought you’d put up a decent fight. But not breaking the connection before I killed my snake…” He shakes his head. “That’s an amateur’s mistake. If you’re that stupid, I don’t know how you even latched on.”

  My head won’t stop spinning. Air only partially fills my lungs. My ribs ache with every shallow breath as I grate out, “Raw power. More than you’ll ever have.”

  “Not much good if you don’t know how to use it.”

  Tell me about it. “Is there a point to your yammering? I’ve had more interesting conversations with a goat.”

  He smirks down at me, his lips in a cruel twist. “Here’s a hint before I end you.” He drives his boot into my ribs again, and I groan. “There’s no glory on the other side. No Styx. No Underworld. No Elysium. There’s nothing.”

  Something hard digs into my hip as an image of the Shadowlands fills my mind. I close my hand around the hilt of the Kobaloi knife Jocasta threw into the Metal Mage, my palm burning with snake venom as I rip the blade from the dead woman and then drive it into the Magoi’s calf.

  “Maybe not for you.” I twist the blade, feeling a satisfying scrape of bone.

  He howls, spittle flying from his mouth as he curses me from here to the Underworld. Then he winds up, and his great big fist comes hammering toward my head.

  I cringe, but his hand never connects. Griffin appears from out of nowhere and grabs the man’s arm from the side. He spins him around to deliver a jaw-crushing punch. The Magoi staggers back, spitting blood. A snake starts growing from his back, but the serpent is slow to form and much smaller this time. The Magoi is likely out of juice, and he knows it. He swings at Griffin with the knife in his hand.

  Griffin ducks. Then his arm shoots out in a blur. He snatches the Magoi’s thick wrist, crushing until the other man drops his blade. Griffin gives a savage jerk, and the bone snaps. The Magoi gasps.

  The knife is bright, shiny, lethal, and not too far away. I crawl toward the dagger, pick it up, and then lurch to standing. The whole arena seems to tilt beneath my feet.

  Griffin yanks on the man’s broken wrist, pulling him in close to lop the small snake from his back. The creature disintegrates before it even hits the ground, and the Magoi hisses in pain.

  Griffin sinks his fist into the man’s abdomen and then shoves him back hard, leaving the Magoi doubled over and struggling for breath.

  “Do you know what happens to anyone who tries to hurt my wife?” Griffin’s voice is both iron and thunder as he flips his sword around and then delivers a punishing backhanded blow with the base of the hilt to the man’s ribs. He hits the same place where the Magoi kicked me. “Either she kills that person”—Griffin flips his sword back around—“or I do.”

  He runs the Magoi through and then brutally lifts his blade, cutting a foot-long gash straight to the man’s chin before drawing his sword back out.

  I blink. Mercy is off the table. Clearly.

  Gingerly, I touch my aching side. “He called me stupid.”

  Griffin’s eyes blaze anew. “Then it’s a bloody shame I can’t kill him twice.”

  Feeling steadier now, I find Thanatos among the blades on the ground. I pick up my sword and then sheathe as many knives as I can. Griffin gathers weapons as well.

  Thump! Thump! Thump!

  Our teammates yell warnings to us as the Cyclops pounds our way.

  “Go!” Griffin shouts. He runs one way, and I run the other. The club slams down between us, flinging up sand.

  Griffin races toward Flynn, tossing him his ax, while Jocasta flaps around, trying to keep the monstrous creature’s attention from landing on Kato and Carver who are up against the wall. Kato has his mace but doesn’t look all that capable of using it. Carver is terrifyingly inert.

  I crane my neck, looking at our final opponent. There’s only one sure way to kill a Cyclops, and it means going up. I dart back under the coppery smelling club to get behind the creature. The Cyclops’s gigantic boots are back-laced and knee-high. Securing Thanatos on my back, I sprint alongside the monster, jump, and then grab a thick rawhide strap, holding on while the Cyclops stomps forward. I swing and bang against the hard leather boot until I finally get a secure hold. Breathing through the pain in my side, I start to climb.

  The boot bindings chafe my venom-damaged hands,
weakening my grip, and the creature’s thudding steps threaten to shake me loose. Still, I could make this climb without too much difficulty if it weren’t for my bruised ribs. Until I reach the Cyclops’s enormous naked back, that is. I’m not sure what to do then.

  The Cyclops swerves. I lose my footholds, and my legs swing out over the pit. My shoulders wrench in their sockets, and pain darts across my side. My hoarse cry is drowned out by the loud, collective gasp that sweeps the arena.

  Sheer determination gets my feet back under me and somehow propels me to the top of the gigantic boot. I pull myself up to standing with the help of the rough linen of the Cyclops’s brown pants and then let my shoulders sag for a few thundering heartbeats. I don’t bother looking up. I already know there’s a long way to go.

  The Cyclops seems to forget about me once I’m not on the sand. With the rest of its team gone, it’s only imperative is to kill us before we kill it. I don’t think it even feels me start to climb the back of its tree trunk of a leg, using its pants to haul myself up, arm over arm. It definitely can’t hear my groans over the noise of the crowd, which is going berserk. I can barely hear myself—my pounding blood, my rasping breath, my aching muscles—but I feel them all under my skin, violently loud.

  Throbbing hand over throbbing hand. Reach. Grab. Pull. My shoulders burn. My arms lose strength, and my fingers start to cramp. None of that compares to the pain in my side. I almost weep with relief when I reach the Cyclops’s belt and somehow loop my trembling arms around the leather strap.

  My breath sawing in and out, I look down. Griffin, Flynn, and Jocasta are running around like mad rabbits in order to keep the creature occupied while I climb. The Cyclops’s club smashes down terrifyingly close to Griffin and then nearly bowls Flynn over on the backswing. Griffin snags its attention again while Flynn races in from behind and swings his ax with all his mighty force, sinking the blade deep into the back of the creature’s boot. The ax head comes away bloody, probably with essence of heel tendon on it.

  The Cyclops bellows and whirls. I keep my arms wrapped tightly around the belt, but my legs fly out, my body stretches flat, and I lock everything down, tensing from head to toe. I slam back into the monster’s hard buttock with a groan.

  Below, Jocasta darts in with her sword, swings with her whole body behind it, and plants the blade in the same exact indent Flynn already made. She slices hard as she pulls the sword back out. The Cyclops kicks and nearly hits her, but she bounces out of the way and then takes off running.

  Griffin shouts and throws a knife. The blade sticks in the monster’s shoulder, tiny and ineffectual, but enough to distract the Cyclops away from Jocasta. Seeing that Jocasta is safe, at least for now, Flynn changes course and charges back in for another hit to the same spot.

  The Cyclops limps its next step and then staggers. They’re trying to bring the creature down. They’re trying to save me the other half of going up. But the Cyclops is so huge, its skin so tough. They’ll need time. They’ll need a saw. And even on its knees, no one on the ground will even come close to reaching its one sure vulnerability.

  The team scatters again, pulling the Cyclops’s attention in different directions and always away from our injured. With his good arm, Kato begins carefully moving Carver toward our exit, getting him that much closer to Selena. Carver’s chest seems too flat, and he leaves a trail of blood in the sand. Even from high up and far away, his face looks chillingly blank.

  I turn away, fear for him twisting my insides into a tight, hard knot. Gathering my strength, I swing my legs up and onto the thick ridge of the Cyclops’s belt. Sideways and not hanging on by much, I grab a knife from my belt, throw my arm up, and plant the dagger in the base of the Cyclops’s back.

  The skin twitches, sending vibrations down my arm. I drag myself up using the handhold I created and then crouch on the edge of the belt. Balancing against the Cyclops’s beefy back, I stand and drive a second knife into the muscle above my head. I grip the sinew-wrapped hilt with both hands, put my foot on the hilt of the first dagger, and then push off the belt.

  My weight shifts the blades. The Cyclops swats at the annoyance, ramming me hard into its back and stunning my lungs. I somehow hold on, although it takes a moment to breathe again. My ribs and arms ache so much I have to convince myself to start the whole process over again. Stubbornness wins out over pain and exhaustion, and I plant another knife near my hip, creating an attainable foothold. I step up onto it. Using one hand on the upper knife to pull myself up and keep my balance, I then drive another blade higher up into the Cyclops’s back for climbing.

  Foothold. Handhold. Repeat. I can do this. I am Titan. I am Olympian. I do not break.

  I do, however, run out of knives.

  Letting loose a string of growled curses that would make a Fisan pirate fall off his boat and drown, I rest my forehead against the Cyclops’s meaty back, my harsh breathing pounding the space between us. Balanced between the knife at my feet and the final knife between my raw hands, I inhale disbelief and exhale denial. I can’t go up, and I’m not entirely certain I can go down.

  Great plan, Cat. Way to think ahead.

  The Cyclops’s skin twitches violently, and I look up. There’s a Kobaloi knife just where I need it, the throw perfect and precise despite the moving target.

  I glance over my shoulder and see Jocasta prepping for another throw, her eyes narrowed and her right arm cocked back. The Cyclops is facing away from her, thrashing the sand with its club and roaring in frustration. Griffin and Flynn dash back and forth, slashing at its legs and then racing out of the way. I’ve never been more grateful for their agility and speed in my life.

  Looking back up, I steel myself for more pain, reach for Jocasta’s knife, and then climb.

  Jocasta throws again. The creature jerks, but I hold on. Foot up. Hand up. Again. Her blades land just where I need them, and then I have it, the thick cord around the Cyclops’s neck. I latch on to the strip of leather and don’t let go. Now there’s just the question of how to reach its eye.

  It’s all or nothing at this point, and I don’t have a better plan, so I stand on the Cyclops’s shoulder, draw my sword, and wave it around. “Hey! Hey, mutton brain!” Maybe it’ll turn toward me enough that I can jab Thanatos into its eye.

  No such luck. Reaching across its body, the Cyclops closes its huge hand around me, squeezing from under my armpits to my ankles. It rips me from its shoulder so fast I’m scared my neck will snap. The creature brings me in front of its monstrous face, giving me far too close a view of its overgrown, coarse features and bulbous nose. One enormous milky-blue eye blinks. The dark pupil dilates, framed by thin, crusty eyelashes. Knobbly fingers squash me until I can barely breathe, and my injured ribs grind with every shallow breath.

  “I’m going to kill you, you son of a Cyclops!” Gods! That’s not even an insult!

  The Cyclops offers a small, brutish smile, showing me its brown and broken teeth. Its voice is guttural, its speech halting. “Did the human think Myopies didn’t know she was there?”

  Myopies? No wonder the Cyclops hasn’t pulverized anyone on the ground since hitting Carver. If the etymology of its name is any indication, it can’t see properly past its own nose.

  “Steps, steps, steps, up Myopies’s back, climbing like a little bug.”

  I get an unfortunate image of myself popped like an insect. The Cyclops kicks out, grimaces, and then limps a step before stopping again.

  I weigh my limited options. If I throw my sword at its eye, even if I use Thanatos like a spear, I’m afraid I’ll miss. The target is big, but my mobility is bad, and sword throwing isn’t exactly my specialty. My only hope may be to get the Cyclops to impale itself.

  A Cyclops is enough like a human, albeit gigantic, that I didn’t want to resort to compulsion, but integrity doesn’t mean much when you’re dead and the people you love are killed along with you.
Griffin was right when he said that people like us don’t always have the luxury of a moral high ground. If this works, I’m about to fall off that cliff.

  I block out the din of the crowd, the pain of my compressed body, the hammering of my heart, and the beat of fear in my ears, and concentrate, searching for that spark I have to ignite between us.

  I can’t find it. It eludes me entirely, and I recoil from the thick, sludgy darkness of the Cyclops’s mind. I try again, pushing harder, but the results are no better. The strength of my magic has always been linked to the strength of my body, and there’s not much left of either right now.

  It knows what I’m trying to do, and the Cyclops squeezes me in its giant fist. My mouth pops open. I gasp.

  “Puny human girl.”

  Before it’s too late to do anything, or at least try, I throw Thanatos like a lance. The tip of my sword hits the hard ridge of the Cyclops’s upper nose, under the eye, barely breaking the skin before dropping to the ground.

  Bollocks! Why did I think that would work?

  Thick fingers tighten around me, and an instinctual call for aid thunders inside me, racing toward Olympus. It’s both silent and mind-numbingly loud.

  Not even a heartbeat later, a lightning bolt splits the air directly behind me, heating the back of my neck. Currents prickle my skin, and all the small hairs on my body stand on end. The thunderclap rattles my eardrums. I don’t know if the dead quiet afterward is me going momentarily deaf, or if the world around me is stunned into silence. The dry, singed smell of charred sand rises from under the Cyclops’s churning boots, and the ground the creature treads on suddenly crunches like glass.

  The Cyclops shakes its head, blinking rapidly. Its pupil shrinks to almost nothing, leaving a huge expanse of cloudy-blue. An eerie howling begins, and the creature freezes. The ghastly sound opens a pit of despair in my chest, and all I can see are the dreary, hopeless souls on the Plain of Asphodel, coinless and cursed to wander with the wicked who are waiting out their punishments in the endless, swirling mists.