Duel of Fire (Steel and Fire Book 1)

by Jordan Rivet

  But then she looked down at the toes of her sensible dueling boots.

  Breathe. She had to block everything else out. Just breathe.

  Her first opponent was Taly Selwun. Dara’s vision narrowed to a tunnel. She took the strip, bending her blade into shape across her knee, and snapped her mask down onto her head.

  The official waited until both duelists had saluted. Then he raised his hands.

  “Ready. Duel!”

  It was over quickly. Dara never should have lost to Taly Selwun. She commanded the bout start to finish. She didn’t throw in any fancy moves, but now was not the time to show off. She obliterated Taly ten to two.

  Cheers filled the arena. Taly sobbed through her salute. Dara refused to look at the royal box. Refused to ask how Vine had done in the first round. Concentrate. Next bout.

  Her second opponent was from the Lands Below. The referee made the calls in two languages. Dara focused. She imagined the opponent was Berg. Any hits she allowed would rip her skin or gouge her eyes. She wouldn’t let this woman get through her.

  “Bout! Ten, four to Ruminor!”

  On and on the bouts progressed. Dara forgot everything but the competition. She didn’t bother with fancy moves or pageantry. She got the job done using her own precise style, enhanced by all the training she had done with Siv. Fast. Accurate. Deadly.

  And the crowd loved it. They chanted her name as she barreled through one opponent after another. No one could touch her.

  Berg stalked amongst the dueling strips, offering his usual tips whenever he passed Dara’s strip.

  Against a sprightly Truren: “Invite, invite, invite, then crush!”

  Against one of Surri’s best students: “Good endurance. Lightning reflexes. Intense focus. This is it. You know the way.”

  Against a Pendarkan champion with muscles like iron: “Must be like tiger! You are not afraid!”

  Dara let his words spur her forward. She would not lose. Not today.

  In what felt like no time at all, she whipped off her mask and saluted her penultimate opponent. The woman limped forward to shake her hand, leg no doubt going numb from the last hit. Dara had won the semifinals. She would compete in the championship bout. She would fight for the Cup.

  “Good, Dara,” Berg growled from the sidelines. “Keep doing this.”

  “Yes, Coach.”

  Berg gave a short nod and stalked over to check on his male students, who were preparing for their first round.

  With the rest of the competition eliminated, Dara slowed to watch Vine’s final bout, the other semifinal. It was closer than any of Dara’s bouts had been. Vine and her opponent were tied at eight. Dara crossed her arms and loomed as close to the strip as she could get. People in the stands pointed gleefully at her as she glowered at her rival, enjoying the display of animosity. Secretly, Dara was afraid Vine would lose. They had to have this final contest. It had to be Vine.

  And it was. Vine executed two identical shots to the wrist to claim the victory. They were beautiful hits. Clean and precise. Dara hid a smile as the crowd went wild.

  The spectators couldn’t be happier. They were about to get the bout they’d been anticipating: Dara Nightfall vs. Vine Silltine, the first true female dueling rivals. The duelists who fought in public squares and jumped from balconies and danced with princes. It was a dream match-up.

  There was a short break between the semifinal and final bouts. Vine sat cross-legged in the middle of the dueling hall to meditate while Dara ran laps. She tried not to look at the audience, at the patrons, at the prince. People would be buying snacks and replenishing their drinks. The betting on the final results would be growing to new, possibly record-breaking heights. Anticipation built around the stadium.

  Dara blocked it all out as she jogged. She was tired, but her extra training sessions over the last months had paid off. She had energy left for the championship duel.

  On her second lap around the arena, she couldn’t help looking up at the royal box. Siv waved at her to come over. Dara hesitated. She shouldn’t be distracted, but she couldn’t resist. She had to know if Vine was right. She jogged up to the box. Siv leaned down over the balcony.

  “You’re doing great!” he shouted. “Sel has been clawing marks in my arm she’s so excited.”

  Selivia noticed that Dara had joined them and bounced over from where she had been sharing salt cakes with Sora. She leaned so far over the balcony that Siv had to grab her shoulder to keep her from pitching over it. She had painted black swirls on her face.

  “You’re amazing, Dara! You’re going to win this! This is the best day ever!”

  “Thank you.” Dara smiled at the princess’s enthusiasm. “Just trying to stay focused.”

  Selivia clapped both hands over her mouth.

  “Of course!” she said through her fingers. “I won’t distract you. Siv, come on, we have to let her focus!” The young princess tugged on her brother’s arm, trying to get him to move away from Dara.

  “Just a sec, Sel.” Siv shook her off and leaned back down, the height of the box keeping them separated by a few feet.

  “Listen,” Dara said before he could say anything. “I’m sorry I stormed off the other night. That was immature.”

  “Yeah, it was,” Siv said, but there was no sting in his words. “Look, I wasn’t going to offer to be your patron. I knew you wouldn’t like that.”

  “Really?” Dara’s heart beat faster. “What were you going to say?”

  Siv glanced around. People in the stands had noticed them talking, and they were pointing and chattering behind their hands. The two princesses watched them with bright eyes.

  “I don’t want to distract you or make you mad,” Siv said. “I’ll talk to you after you win the championship, okay?”

  “Okay. I’ll hold you to that.”

  “You should.” Siv grinned and executed a perfect salute with an imaginary blade. “Cut her down, Dara Nightfall. This bout is yours.”

  The horns rang out again. Cheers and shouts erupted around the stadium. It was time.

  Dara took her place at one end of the championship strip, which sat on a raised platform directly in front of the royal box. She felt flush with triumph and anticipation, but not enough to distract her from the bout. She placed the Savven blade beside the strip. Her good luck charm.

  Dara strode to the center of the platform and shook Vine’s hand firmly. Sweat glistened on Vine’s forehead, and her dark eyes were fierce and determined. Theatrics aside, she would give Dara a good bout. She strutted back to the starting line, still prancing for the crowds.

  A profound calm descended on Dara as she saluted Vine, the officials, and the spectators. She gave an extra salute to the royal box. Selivia dug her fingers into her cheeks, the swirls of paint smudged beyond recognition, and bounced up and down on her seat. Soraline had a death grip on the crumpled black banner in her lap. Siv winked at her and smiled.

  “Let’s see what you’ve got, Dara Nightfall!” Vine called.

  “You will.”

  The official stepped forward. The spectators held their breath as one.

  “On guard.”

  Dara was ready. She had worked too hard for this. She was going to win.

  Vine tossed her hair.

  The official raised his arms.

  “Ready?”

  Dara lifted the tip of her blade, settling into the guard position she knew so well. No matter what Siv was going to say to her afterwards, this bout was hers.

  The official took a deep breath. “Du—”

  Someone screamed, shattering the silence in the stands. Shouts filtered through the back of the audience, confused and distressed. The official hesitated, hands still raised. Dara didn’t move, trying not to listen to whatever the crowds were shouting.

  But then guardsmen began to run into the dueling hall, their boots thundering on the stands. People were standing, looking around, trying to figure out what was going on.

  Then one vo
ice shouted above the others.

  “The king is dead! Someone killed King Sevren!”

  28.

  The Duel

  CHAOS tumbled through the arena. Shouts. Pandemonium. Cries of anguish. Dara only felt confusion. It didn’t make sense. It had to be a trick. A bad joke. The mountain was peaceful. Assassinations were for the Lands Below. This couldn’t happen in Vertigon.

  Castle Guards surrounded the three young Amintelles up in the royal box. Siv and his sisters sat stunned, disbelieving. Dara could see their stricken faces through the guards sweeping around them. Then they were being ushered out of their seats, pushed toward the exit.

  There was something strange about those men. They wore the Castle Guard uniform, but Dara didn’t recognize any of them. Were they all new? Where was Pool?

  “I’m afraid we will have to postpone the duel,” the official was saying. But Dara didn’t wait for him to finish. She started toward the royal box.

  “Wait!” Vine called. Dara ignored her. There would be no more dueling today.

  “Siv!” she shouted.

  The prince didn’t hear her. He looked rattled, fractured, but he put one arm around each sister and pulled them close as the guardsmen guided the three of them out of the royal box. One of the guards pushed back onlookers with bony limbs, stretched out like tree branches.

  Dara dropped her competition weapon to the floor with a clang and dashed back to the strip to snatch up the Savven blade. She had recognized that bony guard leading the young royals away after all.

  It was Farr, dressed as a Castle Guard. Something was very wrong.

  Farr and three other guards formed a tight cluster around the royal family and rushed them out of the dueling hall. Dara hurtled after them. Spectators and other duelists lurched in front of her, asking what was going on as if she were some sort of authority. She forced through the crowd, snapping at anyone who got in her way, but she soon lost sight of her quarry. Panic spiked in her heart.

  She finally broke through to the outer doors, where more crowds gathered, their faces worried and mournful. Dara scanned the streets and staircase leading away from the arena. She caught a glimpse of Siv and his sisters again. The guards were hurrying them down the street, too far ahead. People stood aside to let them pass, calling out questions in their wake.

  “Is it true?”

  “Where is the king?”

  “It cannot be!”

  At the far end of the road a steep staircase climbed upward toward the castle. But instead of taking the royal family up, the four guards gathered in closer and shepherded them downward. Dara hurried toward them. They were too far ahead, and they were going the wrong way.

  “Hey!” Siv’s voice rose on the wind. “Take us to the castle. We have to see our father.”

  The lead guard shook his head.

  “You must come with us.”

  Dara broke into a run, drawing the Savven blade. The sheath clattered to the cobblestones.

  “I said go to the castle,” Siv commanded.

  Instead of obeying, the guards wrenched the princesses away from their brother. Sora screamed. Selivia sobbed and struggled against Farr, who held her by both arms. Two guards moved in closer to Siv. One drew something from his belt. Metal glinted.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” Siv shouted.

  “The king is dead,” the man growled. “You are next.” He raised his arm, a large knife clutched in his fist, and lunged toward the prince before he could react.

  Dara hurled herself down the steps. At the last instant, she sliced her blade between Siv and his attacker. The man let out a bloodcurdling scream, and his knife dropped to the ground. His hand dropped with it.

  Sora shrieked. The man whose hand Dara had cut off teetered backwards, stumbling farther down the steep stairs.

  Siv wasted no time. He punched Sora’s captor and pulled her away as he fell to the ground. Siv pushed his sister up the stairs.

  “Run, Sora!”

  Then he tackled her captor before he could draw a weapon.

  Farr was dragging Selivia farther down the winding stone steps. The hem of her skirt bloomed red with the blood of the man cradling the stump of his arm.

  The final guard stalked closer to Dara, blocking her way. He had golden-brown hair, longer than the standard Castle Guard cut, and he had the lean, powerful look of a seasoned duelist. He drew a rapier from his belt. It was deadly sharp and edged with a thin, burning strip of gold. A Fire Blade.

  Dara raised the Savven.

  Siv swore as he slammed into the wall of a nearby greathouse, exchanging shoves and punches with Sora’s erstwhile captor, but Dara kept her focus on the man with the rapier. He moved smoothly, comfortable with the deadly weapon in his hand.

  Though tired from the competition, Dara’s senses sharpened like a razor. She studied her opponent’s stance, his exploratory taps at her blade. He moved well, but his weapon was thicker than the Savven blade, heavier. She would use that.

  Dara attacked. The clang of steel against Fire-infused steel rang over the mountain as the swordsman parried. His riposte missed her by a hair. Dara retreated then counter-attacked as the swordsman lunged for her again. Fast as lightning, he blocked her hit. His lip curled in contempt.

  Dara had the higher ground, but it was hard to move on the steps. She held the swordsman off, jabbing at his face when he got too close. She could still see Farr beyond her opponent, holding Selivia by the arm and trying to drag her down the steps. The princess went limp, forcing him to bend down to lift her dead weight.

  Dara bounced on the balls of her feet, looking for an opening in the swordsman’s defenses.

  Behind her, Siv managed to subdue his man with a heavy-handed punch to the jaw. As the guardsman crumpled to the ground, Siv scrambled back down the steps and plucked the knife from the grip of the severed hand on the ground. Then, still breathing heavily from the scuffle, he took a position beside Dara. They faced the swordsman side by side.

  They didn’t speak, didn’t need to. Siv edged one way, Dara the other, then they both attacked.

  The Fire Blade blurred with unnatural speed. The swordsman met their combined assault, somehow managing to block both Dara’s sword and Siv’s knife. He retreated downward another step, awaiting their next move.

  The man was outnumbered, but all he had to do was hold them off. Selivia and her captor were getting farther away despite her efforts to slow him down. They would be beyond reach soon. This had to end now.

  “I’ll handle this guy,” Siv grunted. “Get Sel.”

  “Take the Savven,” Dara said. The prince wouldn’t stand a chance if he tried to fight a true swordsman with a knife.

  She retreated a few steps and moved the hilt of her blade toward the prince so he could take it from her. As soon as she opened her guard, their opponent lunged for her exposed wrist. She knew he would fall for the feint. She countered with a sudden shot to his upper arm, a pure sport dueling move. The Savven bit into him. The man cursed.

  Siv took the opportunity to hurl the knife directly at his heart.

  The swordsman’s eyes widened as the blade pierced his body. He dropped the sword from his injured arm and clutched at the hilt sticking out of his chest, disbelief painting his face white.

  “Now get Sel,” the prince said, jumping forward to grab the fallen sword. “And keep the Savven! I’ll make sure Sora’s safe.”

  Without hesitation, Dara ran headlong down the steps after the fleeing pair. She caught a glimpse of the princess’s skirt swishing around a corner as they left the stone staircase and rushed along a wooden walkway bordering a quiet row of houses. The pounding of their steps echoed across the Gorge.

  They were going in the direction of the Fire Guild. It can’t be!

  Farr was taking Selivia to the Fireworkers. Farr, a known ally of Dara’s parents. Farr, the young man who had become such a big supporter of the Ruminors at the Guild of late.

  The princess screamed for help. Dara ra
n faster, despite the shock hammering through her.

  The Fire Guild was immense. They would disappear into it. Dara would never be able to save the princess unless she reached them before they got through the doors. But they were too far ahead. She had to do something.

  She clutched blindly at the Spark growing inside her, the connection to the power of the mountain that she barely knew how to use. She drew on her fear, her adrenaline, every ounce of focus she had saved up for the Cup championship.

  At first nothing happened. She was running on wood, with no time to gather residual power from the stones of the mountain. But the wall beside the boardwalk was lined with Fire Lanterns. Ruminor Fire Lanterns. Dara knew what she had to do. She needed a conduit. The Savven. It would have to work.

  Dara stabbed the blade upward, piercing one of the Fire Lanterns as though it were the head of a practice dummy. She yanked the power contained in the core along the blade and into her body. She gasped at the prick of heat as it was injected into her blood. Then Dara curled the Fire into a tiny molten ball inside her and hurled it forward, out of her body and up the sword. It gathered a coating of molten metal as it blazed along the blade. Then she whipped it forward, like flicking a zur-wasp off the tip of her sword.

  The little bead of Fire and steel struck Farr on the back of the head and stuck to his scalp, burning a ring in his hair. He cursed and stumbled in surprise. Selivia fell to the ground. Farr spun around, bewildered. He would know someone had just attacked him with Fire.

  “Let her go,” Dara yelled.

  “Dara?” Farr said, facing her across the walkway. “Don’t you know this is part of the plan? I have my orders from your fa—”

  “No!”

  Dara pulled. She wasn’t sure how she did it without direct contact with a steel conduit, but she yanked the bead of Fire and hardening steel back toward her. It passed straight through Farr’s skull on its way to her. His eyes widened for an instant, then the life went out of them like a candle being extinguished. He fell.