Seated beside him, Seda glanced around again. She looked ill at ease and nervous, but inside she was noting the faces around her that she knew.
They are all in place, those of them I can see. She would be either victorious or dead by dawn, she knew well. Either way, she could no longer live under the shadow of her brother’s spite, or of Maxin’s knife. Always plots within plots within plots.
Crouching behind Uctebri, Tynisa had eyes only for Tisamon. Her hands were shackled, her feet chained to the floor. A cold and terrible feeling overwhelmed her. I do not want to watch this.
But I must. Because someone must, and that should be someone who knew him, and who cared. Whatever was about to happen, there must be a witness.
When he stepped out before them, the crowd fell very nearly silent, as though 700 Wasp-kinden were collectively holding their breaths. It was not just for him, of course, for Felise had stepped out to face him across the arena at the very same time. She had been fighting her practice matches too. They had watched her, just as they had watched him, and it had not taken much imagination to realize that now at this climax of the games they would come together.
They had taken away her iridescent armour that was glittering proof against sting-shot. She wore only a band of cloth across her breasts, a leather binding about her shoulders and back, and otherwise the same loose, short britches that Tisamon did. The Wasps liked to see their blood on display, their wounds clearly visible. Her pose was defiant, as though she had never been captured, and Tisamon realized suddenly that she had not, just as he had not.
We are neither of us prisoners, not standing here with our blades drawn. These are the parts of us that mere bars cannot hold.
His mind felt clear now. It was twenty years since it had been so clear. What a mad time for him to suddenly become sane! What a moment for him to understand, in front of all these witnesses, that he loved Felise like nothing on earth.
He looked Felise straight in the eyes. The shock of such visual contact made him misstep as he walked towards her. Her return stare lanced into his mind with the fierce intensity of her passion.
Not hate, love. She has every reason to hate me. Standing before the host of his enemies, preparing himself for his last fight, Tisamon considered, I am a lucky man and I am thankful.
She carried her sword, of course: that long-hafted Dragonfly blade that moved like light and shadow in her hands. He himself had his clawed gauntlet, his constant companion that was like part of his body. This would be a match such as had never been seen before by imperial eyes.
The bindings about her shoulders were not armour, nor merely decorative. The Wasps had given some careful thought to how to banish a slave’s Art wings without stopping her moving freely. They wanted her to fight, but not to fly.
He held her eyes. He did not even need to mouth anything, or look anywhere else but there. She understood, and she let him know what she could give him. They faced each other across the sand in the stance of rival combatants but they were of one mind. He could feel his own mind letting go, piece by piece, stripping itself down to this one honed purpose. The Wasp crowd was now so quiet that it was as if they were merely part of the plan. The hush was almost conspiratorial.
He had drawn his blade back, his offhand extended forwards to parry, his weight resting on the back foot. Felise’s sword rose vertical before her, leaning slightly forwards. His view of her face was now bisected by the blade.
He felt as though they were dancers, awaiting the music.
As she moved, sword blurring, he swayed aside, first left, then right, and the blade came down towards his face, and he brushed it aside with the palm of his free hand. Meanwhile his claw came in. He gave her no time, slashing at her head, at her side. She spun out of the way. Abruptly there was distance between them again. They circled, and the excitement of the crowd grew feverish. Such a flurry of blows, each one intended to be fatal, and not a drop of blood. They were both so swift, so sure, that the watchers were left disentangling each pass, marvelling that one or both had not yet been struck dead.
He lunged at her, and felt a joy that he could use every ounce of his skill against her, his blade dancing and flashing about her guard, skittering from the straight steel of her own weapon, snapping out again into sudden thrusts at her eyes, her stomach, her throat. There was no need for him to hold back: she was good enough to hold him off, and when she came back at him it was for real. She was trying to kill him. They were striving, with every drop of blood, to kill each other, secure in the knowledge that it could not be done.
Are we immortal? Yes, for this dance of moments they were immortal.
He cut close. She jerked her head aside and the blade nicked her cheek. Her sword clipped his shoulder. She was smiling, and he realized that so was he, both conscious of the sudden whisper of shock around the pit, at the first sight of blood. They broke apart again.
Her blood, some several drops of it, was on his claw. He touched his lips to the metal, tasting it. The crowd loved that. They relished the bestial barbarism of the foreigner. Only Felise recognized the kiss.
She understood entirely.
She went for him, and her sword cut wide arcs to either side of her opponent. He lashed for her chest and she deflected the blow with a swift circular motion, turning it instantly into a riposte that was likely to split his head open. He dropped to one knee, crooking his claw inwards and driving it for her ribs, but she stepped in close so that it was his spined forearm instead that cut her. She reversed her blade to drive it point-down into him, and he threw himself forwards, catching her about the waist with his free arm, registering the shock of feeling her skin against his, the warmth and the strength of it. Her blade, thus jolted, cut a shallow line across his shoulder-blade and he carried her forwards, his claw whipping across her shoulders, left and right.
He released her, backing off for the next charge. He could hardly contain himself. So alive! She had by now dropped into a defensive stance in readiness for him. He tensed himself to spring.
For a brief, lost moment he wondered if there could have been more than this for the pair of them. That seemed unlikely. We were doomed from the start. Tragedy without regret: it was a very Mantis-kinden concept. Perhaps I am a good Mantis after all.
It was only after he had started running towards her that she shrugged her shoulders and the leather bindings parted where he himself had cut them, and her wings flashed into life.
His blade was still drawn back as they met. He took her sword from her, and her hands grasped him under the arms, and she kicked off.
Not far, because she could not have borne him far. All he needed, though, was six or eight feet added on to his jump and, before the astonishment of 700 Wasps, he found footing on the top of the barrier and killed three soldiers as he landed. Felise had retrieved her sword from him by then, and they began to fight for real.
The soldiers stationed along the perimeter bunched forwards around them, because Felise had taken them straight to the imperial box and she and Tisamon were now less than five yards from the Emperor and pressing forwards. There was a confusion of armoured men trying to block their way amid a clutter of spear-shafts. Spears might be ideal for keeping people confined in the pit but they needed space to be brought to bear. The wretched guards could not step back, for every foot conceded was a foot closer to their lord. Their spear-shafts merely tangled, so they dropped them. Their stings flashed past or between the two fighting slaves, burning only empty air or each other. In such close confines the short blades of Felise’s sword and Tisamon’s claw performed a rigorous test of the guards’ armour and their training, and found them wanting, every weak point penetrated, every seam opened up. In the first few stunned seconds, the nearest Wasp soldiers seemed to unfold outwards from the me?le?e like the petals of a flower.
The soldiers lined up before the imperial seats were now running forwards, drawing their shortswords, shouting for their companions to get out of the way. The soldiers st
ationed behind Uctebri and the princess were rushing to join them. Even the Emperor’s scribe had his pen-knife in his hand, ready to make a stand against this sudden incursion.
Tynisa stared helplessly, feeling the weight of the chains about her. She stared at her father in his moment of terrible glory. All around, the crowd were shouting, screaming, even cheering, a riot in the making, but her own world seemed to have gone silent. She saw only those two battling figures, continually eclipsed by the Wasp soldiers and then suddenly in sight again. She saw that Felise now had a bloody gash across her ribs, and the weal left by a sting’s near miss along her back. A soldier took his broken spear and managed to jam the point of it into Tisamon’s leg before the Mantis killed him. The wound did not seem to slow Tisamon at all. Tynisa felt tears coursing down her face. He cannot do it. There are too many of them.
She looked over at the hateful pale man beside her and understood that it was not his plan that Tisamon should succeed. Tisamon had already accomplished what he had been intended to do, and Uctebri the Sarcad was taking advantage of it.
He is perfect. Uctebri thrilled at seeing the Mantis weave through the storm of stings and spears and swords, with his jointed claw constantly in motion, cleaving again and again and casting the refuse aside. Beside him the Dragonfly woman was just as swift. He saw her sword dart and dive, her movements small and controlled and utterly savage, lopping at wrists and necks, goring unprotected throats and bellies. Then it got caught in the body of one of her victims and she abandoned it instantly, the claws of her thumbs folding out. Her presence was unexpected, and for a moment he even wondered, Can they…?
But they could not. More soldiers were arriving all the time, pushing their way around the edge of the arena or coasting across it, and if it had been possible for Alvdan to die at the hands of a pit-fighter then he would be dead already. Uctebri realized that he had been caught in the trap he had set for everyone else, staring in horror and fascination at the frenzied knot of bloodshed. He had work to do, and Tisamon and Felise, through their final flurry of skill, had gifted him with exactly what he needed. Nobody was watching him, or even the Emperor. As was proper for a pit fight, they had eyes only for the killing.
He glanced about, seeing that all the guards that had so recently surrounded him were now committed to the fight. With amusement he found that General Maxin, instead of rushing to his lord’s aid, had backed as far as he could go from the fray, eyes fixed on the bloody stalemate that was now seething at the edge of the pit. No danger there.
Now. His hands tightened on the Shadow Box, that had been so hard to come by. He needed power for this, strength beyond his own, strength from a time when men like him were truly strong.
Laetrimae, come forth, he commanded. Come forth to serve me.
She boiled into the air, a writhing smudge of thorns and briars within which hung her human form, pierced and crucified. The eyes she turned on him were a faceted glitter shining with her dispassionate loathing.
‘Kill him,’ Uctebri commanded, not needing to say who. ‘Give me his strength.’
The strength of an Emperor, he sought. Alvdan might underneath it all be simply a mortal man, a ruler merely by accident of birth, but such symbols carried power within magic. The strength of an Emperor could bind an empire; the strength of a brother could bind a sister.
Laetrimae lurched forwards, flickering in the dim air, but Alvdan saw none of it. His hands were locked on to the arms of his throne, as he pressed back into the seat. He stared at Tisamon and, from the midst of the throng, from the eye of that blade-storm, Tisamon stared back at him.
Uctebri saw Laetrimae raise her own mantis claw, composed of steel and chitined flesh. He gripped the Box so tight he felt his nails grind against it.
Tynisa threw herself forwards, crying out, but was heard by nobody, not even Tisamon. They were flagging now, those two fighters. The weight of the Wasps was crushing them. Felise had a bloody wound at the side of her head that had closed one eye. Her hands were steeped in gore up to the elbows, her thumbs constantly stabbing and cutting. Tisamon took a sword-thrust in the side, and Tynisa saw the shock of it wash over his face without leaving a mark. He was shouting now, but no clear words emerged, just a scream that sounded almost triumphant. The Wasps were steadily burying them.
Tynisa cried out again, feeling the physical shock as one desperate Wasp rammed a spear home into Felise’s back. The Dragonfly woman arched backwards, but without the reach to find her tormentor. A sting-shot seared past her, to punch a soldier on the far side of the fight off the wall and hurl him into the pit. Felise drove her thumbs into a soldier’s eyes.
Tynisa kept straining forwards, reaching with manacled hands as though she could somehow stop what was happening and wrench it all to a halt. She watched Felise double over a sword suddenly forced under her ribs. The faces of the Wasps were terrible to behold: exhibiting not hate or rage but sheer heroic courage in giving their lives to keep these monsters away from their Emperor.
Felise was by now on her knees and Tisamon fell alongside her, another sweep of his claw killing the closest assailant cleanly and driving the others back momentarily. He had his other arm about the Dragonfly, though his offhand was a ruin. She was leaning into him limply, and Tynisa knew that she was dead.
A Wasp lunged forward with a spear and Tisamon rose up to meet it, taking the point past his left shoulder and snapping out his claw to pierce the wielder’s neck. He was laughing, she saw. He was weeping.
Alvdan contorted in his seat as Laetrimae drove her claw right through the wooden back of it and continued on, until the smudge of its grey tip had torn out of his chest. Uctebri saw the Emperor’s mouth gape in silent horror, so wide that it seemed his jaw would snap. Then he was lost amid a tide of writhing thorns and insect limbs. Uctebri saw the Mantis woman’s face dip down to feast, beautiful even when disfigured by scalpel-sharp mandibles.
He took out his knife and held it poised above the box. It was not a special knife, possessing no golden hilt, unadorned by jewels or silver inscriptions on the blade, but he had no need of a magical knife, he knew, for the holder of the Shadow Box was magic in his very being.
Give him to me, he commanded, and the blood began to well – not across the unmarked yet spasming body of Alvdan, but along the length of Uctebri’s dagger. At first a drip, then a running red trickle, and then it had become a stream coursing down the blade and spattering the box, saturating Uctebri’s robes beneath. For his kinden, the blood was all things.
He brought the impossibly flowing blade up to his mouth, let his tongue taste an Emperor’s blood. Then he held it out to Seda. His red eyes transfixed her.
‘Taste it,’ he said.
She stared at him, almost grinning, but shook her head. ‘No.’
‘Immortality,’ he hissed. ‘You cannot tell me you don’t believe in magic.’
‘Oh, I believe,’ she told him. ‘I believe in what you could do to me.’
‘Taste it, you little fool!’ he spat at her, the blood from the knife flowing down his arm, pattering on to the floor. Seda’s face twisted with an emotion even all her years of dissembling could not conceal and with a scream she struck the weapon from his hand.
‘You fool, you are bound to this! You have nothing but this!’ hissed Uctebri, but Seda was no longer even looking at him. She was abruptly retreating, staring past him.
He looked around instinctively. He could not, in that moment, help himself.
Out of the tangle of fighting Wasp soldiers a single figure had fought clear. It was drenched head to foot in blood, with one hand gone, a spear’s broken shaft jutting from its leg. Even as it burst forth, a soldier drove a sword into the apparition’s back and lost his grip on the slick hilt. The bloody, mangled thing was then free to hurl itself up the tiered seats, keening a battle-cry.
Your prey is already dead, Uctebri thought, seeing the drained corpse that had been Alvdan the Second, Emperor of all the Wasps. It was still his thoug
ht as Tisamon reached him with that fearsome claw drawn back.
For a split second Uctebri fought to assemble his magic to overwhelm the susceptible mind of the Mantis who had been his tool for so long. Tisamon’s mind was all pain and fury and ravaged love, so slippery with blood that the Mosquito struggled for purchase on it. For a second he had the man again in his power, but then something lanced through Uctebri’s leg, tearing his robe, laying his flesh open with dreadful pain from the calf downwards to pin his foot to the ground. He experienced a second’s horrified realization that the blade that now shed his precious blood was the dagger that Seda had knocked from his grasp – and that its new wielder was Tynisa.
Her hands gripping about the dagger hilt, Tynisa watched a Wasp soldier, his own face slashed open by Tisamon’s claw, slam his blade up to the hilt in Tisamon’s back, alongside the sword already lodged there, and Tisamon shuddered, crying out something, a word or a name. It could have been Felise.
The claw descended and Uctebri screamed, holding out the only thing he had left to defend himself.
Tisamon drove his blade into the Shadow Box, still howling that formless name, so that its wooden sides, with all their distorted carvings, flew apart like kindling, and for a moment there was a boiling, evaporating rip in Uctebri’s hands, but shrivelling and dying even as Tynisa watched it.
Uctebri heard the triumphant cry in his head, the voice of his slave Laetrimae, and of all of her kin, of the entire doomed place of the Darakyon, as the anchor that held them to the world was suddenly gone, the snarl in the world’s weave unravelling.
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