Loose Changeling: A Changeling Wars Novel

by A. G. Stewart

  A hooded figure stood to the side, robed in dark green. His head turned in my direction as I walked forward. I could see no eyes beneath the hood, only the end of a nose and a pair of lips, set in flesh nearly as pale as the white stone I tread upon. There was something unsettling about him—the slight smile, the glimpse of black hair peeking out of the hood, the way he looked at me. I couldn’t see his eyes, but I knew they stared.

  “I didn’t think you would come,” Haldor said, his voice gruff. He did not seem entirely happy to see me.

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  He shrugged. “Fear. The Sidhe live long lives, and you’ve only known a fraction of it. There are few that would willingly give that up. I will take no pleasure in killing you. I only volunteered because, if I hadn’t, Alene would have, and she would not have fought fairly.”

  “But it has to be done,” I said. I remembered what Kailen had said—that Haldor was a good man.

  He nodded. “It is our law. I understand why the Aranhods created you, but that is not my fight.” He lifted the sword, the globes glinting off the steel. “This is.”

  He looked to the man. “We will observe the rites.”

  The man stepped forward. “What items do you wish to bring into the Arena? Haldor, of Ciobhan’s realm, has first pick, as the challenged.”

  Haldor’s grip tightened on the hilt of his sword. “My sword,” he said.

  “Nicole, Changeling,” the man said, his voice filling the room, “do you object?”

  This was one of those moments I could have used Kailen's guidance. I hadn't realized I would have a chance to approve or disapprove of the items my opponent wanted to bring into the Arena. I shook my head. When both Haldor and the man still looked to me, I cleared my throat. “No, I do not.”

  “And what item would you bring?” he asked me.

  Feeling slightly foolish, I pulled the butter knife from my belt. “This knife,” I said.

  Haldor did not object. He picked his armor next, and I, the metal coaster. Things proceeded smoothly until I indicated the plastic train engine, one of Tristan's toys. Haldor narrowed his eyes at this.

  “I object.”

  “Set it aside,” the man said.

  I placed the plastic train engine on the floor. I'd practiced transforming this into a larger train engine, complete with smoke and noise. It would have given me a chance to run, at the very least.

  “Haldor, of Ciobhan's realm, you now have two remaining objections.”

  Ah, three objections then. I remembered the fairytales I'd read as a child. Three was always an important number.

  I used my first objection on a bottle of dark, unidentifiable liquid. For all I knew, it could be poison, or a potion to enhance Haldor's abilities. He frowned when I objected, and I cheered inwardly. Perhaps I could do this on my own.

  He let my mother's charm pass, as well as the perfume bottle. I used my second objection on some wicked-looking darts. Though I was glad I'd objected, seeing them just reminded me of what I would face in the Arena if I failed. Death and dismemberment—not necessarily in that order.

  I had to stop from holding my breath when I held up the gun. It had a full clip loaded inside. I hadn’t brought any more ammunition.

  Although the Guardian gave it a long look, he didn’t object. Haldor used his last objection on my tennis shoes, of all things. I used my last objection on a pouch of crystals.

  “Then you are both ready,” the man said. He didn't say it like a question. “Remember this is to the death.”

  Now I gave the man a second glance, taking in his robe, the gently curving lips, the pale skin. I squinted and leaned forward a bit—I still couldn't make out his eyes. “And you’re going to make sure that happens?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I am the Arbiter.”

  Of course. The Arbiter presided over challenges. I’d nearly forgotten about my own worries, about seeking legal status among the Fae.

  “I ensure that the terms of the challenge are carried out, on both ends,” he said. “If you win, Changeling, I will be the arbiter of justice in the event the Guardians attempt to attack you again.”

  I shivered, the cold of the stone floor seeping through my socks. He had that kind of power?

  He placed a chilly finger on my forehead, and one on Haldor's. “Neither of you can leave the Arena without killing the other. If you try, you forfeit your life. We will begin the first round.”

  The Arbiter lowered his hands and the ceiling moved, the stone scraping as it rolled to the side, disappearing into the wall. I wanted to shout, to protest, to tell them that I'd changed my mind. I swallowed the words and grasped for the butter knife. A breeze swept into the empty space left by the receding ceiling. The sky came into view, a light cerulean, not a cloud to be seen.

  The floor shuddered and began to rise. I tried to keep my breathing steady, and did not look at Haldor. A cheer arose as our heads crested the Arena floor. It rumbled through my chest, louder than the bass in a movie theater. The stands were nearly full, the white stone obscured by moving shapes. We came to a stop when our feet were flush with the Arena floor. The rest of the Arena floor was white stone as well, nothing I could use to transform, not even a mote of dust.

  The Arbiter stepped back. “Grian will continue the proceedings.” He disappeared, leaving a cold void in his wake. All the hairs on the back of my neck rose at once.

  “The rites have been observed,” a clear voice called over the rumbling murmur of the crowd. I looked around and identified the source. Grian, in a box seat, Tristan sitting in the skirts of her dress. The noise from the crowd died down, faces turning to look in the Queen's direction. She lifted a little from her seat and flung out her hand.

  A red scarf flew into the Arena, floating and drifting downwards. Haldor, a mere five paces from me, put his hand on the hilt of his sword, the other on the scabbard. I reached for the butter knife, my fingers numb and my mind empty. All I saw was the red scarf. All I felt and heard was the frantic beating of my heart.

  The scarf touched the ground.

  I moved at the same time Haldor did. The butter knife morphed easily into a sword as I drew it from my belt. I brought it up just in time to catch Haldor's blade. The metallic ring of blade upon blade mingled with the roar of the crowd.

  Haldor pushed against me and then slipped to the side, a move designed to put me off balance. But Mark had tried this on me as well. I kept my stance, breathed in, and breathed out power. Instinct kicked in. I flowed from one move to the next, my blade moving like an extension of my hand. Haldor may have practiced for centuries, but he also didn't have Talent in sword fighting. The faint scent of lemon peel reached me as he ducked away. He might be able to use some sword fighting magic to speed his steps, but it would cost him dearly.

  I dashed forward, intent on pressing my advantage and making him spend as much of his energy as I could. My signature, dark chocolate, built in the air. I wouldn't have the chance to dispel it.

  The stone beneath my feet turned suddenly cold. A thin veneer of ice covered the floor, chilling me to the bones, making my socks stick to its surface. My charge quickly became an exercise in staying upright. So this was why he'd denied me my sneakers. At least, with the rubber, I'd have been able to slide across the surface, my magic-enhanced reflexes compensating for the ice. I pulled my socks free and danced away, catching a glimpse of the smug expression on Haldor's face.

  I moved my sword to my left hand and grabbed the bottle of perfume. I sprayed a puff in Haldor's direction, transforming it into acid as I did so. I hadn't had much opportunity to practice this in Lainey's yard, afraid of causing too much destruction. It had still pitted the concrete of her patio.

  Haldor reached for the shield on his back and swung it in front of him, just in time to intercept the cloud. It hissed against the metal, but didn't eat through it. The shield was crafted, imbued with special powers. I launched myself at him and swung my sword.

  It connected with the shie
ld. It was like hitting a wall. Haldor's arm didn't give way beneath my blow. I wondered if he carried anything else that was crafted. Just as this thought ran through my head, Haldor moved his shield to the side and flung fire at me.

  My Fae Talent saved me. I sensed the movement just as he'd started it. I ducked into a roll. The fire singed my hair, the heat of it licking at my back. He will distract you with fire and come up from behind with ice. I stopped in my roll and sprang to my feet. I'd almost run into a wall of ice, twice as tall as me, expanding by the moment. Kailen hadn't lied about Haldor.

  I pulled one of Tristan's wooden blocks from a pouch at my belt and tossed it on the ground in front of the ice wall. It expanded quickly to become a wall of wood, blocking the ice wall from its advance.

  The scent of lemon peel increased, filling the Arena. The ice wall grew, pressing against my wooden one, flowing over the top.

  I concentrated, thinking of Mark and Lainey and Tristan. My wooden wall grew as well, blocking the ice wall from further advance. It obscured half the crowd in the Arena, growing taller and wider. I could feel more than see Haldor's presence to my right. Did he still grow his wall? Could I stop, or if I did, would his ice flow around my wooden wall, crushing me like a grain of sand beneath a wave?

  A hand grasped my arm.

  Don't let him touch you.

  Too late. His thoughts brushed over mine, intimate as the caress of a lover. His fear was the strongest note, as acute as my own. What could he see about me? I tried to break away, but couldn't, my arms and legs unresponsive to my commands.

  A thought entered the forefront of my mind. Haldor did not trust Grian. He was not the only Guardian who did not. And then the image of a face, like Haldor’s, but with blue eyes instead of brown.

  I finally took a step back and turned, my eyes meeting Haldor's. He looked confused. What had just happened? Kailen had said that Haldor would be able to place thoughts in my head. Had he placed this one to unsettle me, make me weak and hesitant to strike, or had I somehow plucked it from his mind? Behind me, Haldor's ice wall cracked and shattered.

  The confusion left his face. He extended a hand and sent a line of fire chasing toward me, sinuous and fast as a striking snake. I used my Talent-enhanced reflexes to dart away. The fire missed me and crashed into my wooden wall, setting it ablaze. The heat of it warmed my back to an uncomfortable temperature. Not being able to undo a Changeling’s magic didn’t mean not being able to destroy objects I transformed, apparently. Maybe there was some advantage to it that I hadn’t yet thought of.

  I ran toward Haldor before he could gather himself for another strike of ice or fire. If I kept him engaged with swordplay, he wouldn’t be able to use his elemental magic against me, and I knew I slightly outmatched him with my Talent. But when I slashed at him with my sword, he brought that immovable shield to bear. The impact shuddered up my arm.

  There had to be a way to get that shield out of the picture. I tried to slide around it, but Haldor moved nearly as fast as I did.

  When I reached out with my magic and attempted to transform it, I ran into a mental wall as solid as the physical shield. It was well crafted and wouldn’t give to my whims. Another way, then.

  We jabbed and parried as the wall burned, sending smoke thick into the sky. A few times it blew in our direction, making both of us cough and our eyes water. I tried a few times to push Haldor toward the fire, as I’d pushed Mark against the garden beds, but Haldor had at least twice the skill I did, and much more strength. My Talent-enhanced strength was about an even match for his.

  Sweat gathered between my shoulder blades and trickled down my back. I tried to retreat, to take a breather, but Haldor did not seem to tire. Each time he blocked my blows with his shield, the energy drained from my limbs. I simply didn’t have the endurance of long practice.

  I managed to pull the coaster from my belt and bring it to bear as a shield. Mark had told me to ditch it when I got tired, but I found it gave me some respite from the battle. I’d made it long and tall, and it covered my vulnerable spots.

  How much longer would this round go on? How much longer could I last? I wiped the sweat from my forehead with my sword arm and wished I’d worn a headband. I felt sluggish, slow.

  Just when I’d resolved to move again, Haldor stopped trying to work his way around my guard. A cold feeling settled in the pit of my stomach. He wouldn’t just let me rest.

  In one smooth movement, I slung my shield over my back and ran. Something hard hit me in the back, knocking the wind out of me. I struggled to breathe and to put one foot in front of the other. I turned my head and saw what looked like a miniature glacier drifting over the Arena floor. Ice. He’d hit me with a huge chunk of ice.

  Time to bring out the flashier magic. I pulled one of Tristan’s stuffed animals from my belt and tossed it into the air.

  I transformed it into a grushound.

  Gasps arose from the stands. Was it because I’d done something particularly skilled, or something particularly stupid? I wasn’t quite sure. I’d seen grushound claws and teeth swipe through metal as though it were flesh and sinew. And maybe Maera could control her white griffins, but I had no idea how one controlled a grushound.

  So I took my best guess. I sprayed the perfume onto the rag and lobbed it at Haldor.

  Haldor, who had been too busy staring at the grushound, didn’t even dodge. It struck him on his armor, the heavy scent of floral perfume clear even at my distance.

  The grushound sniffed the air. With a low growl in its throat, it turned to Haldor. He did what any sensible person would do. He lifted his shield and backed away. This only seemed to ignite the hunting instinct in the hound. It bounded forward, the muscles of its heavy shoulders bunching as it leapt toward the Guardian.

  I allowed myself a small grin of triumph. But I didn’t know how long a grushound fashioned of a rag would last. I had to think on my next move, and quickly. Unfortunately they didn’t have a timer, or even an hourglass, stating how long was left in the first round. I still had a few wooden blocks on my belt, and if necessary, I could try transforming the metal coaster into something other than a shield. Though my transformation magic worked well, the elimination process with The Arbiter had whittled my objects down.

  But right now the grushound was clawing at Haldor’s shield, throwing its weight against him. I had to act on my advantage.

  I had to kill Haldor.

  My focus had been so strongly set on survival that I hadn’t thought about killing. How would I do it? Shoot him? Stab him with my sword? Transform something into an object that would crush him? Spray acid at his face? Each scenario that entered my mind was more gruesome than the last. I didn’t know if I had it in me.

  I pulled the gun out anyways and started my way around the perimeter of the Arena, circling around to get at Haldor's back. If I was lucky, the grushound would take care of the Guardian for me.

  But I’d never been lucky. It seemed to have as much difficulty with Haldor’s shield as I had. With each strike it took, the more floppy and doll-like it appeared. The object’s true nature showing through, breaking itself upon a crafted shield.

  Haldor’s back met my eyes, only a few steps away, armored but not shielded. And there were gaps—between the pauldrons and the breastplate, between the breastplate and the skirt. His calves were bare. His head was uncovered.

  I swallowed and took aim at his head, all of Mark's lessons and advice echoing in my mind. I emptied the clip. All of my shots went wide. One even hit the grushound. I wasn’t sure what I'd expected. To be magically good at gunslinging when I was under pressure?

  The sword it was, then. I tucked the gun back into its holster, grabbed my sword, and rushed forward, bringing the blade in low. As soon as I swung, Haldor brushed aside the grushound, now limp as rags, and turned. He slashed down, catching my sword and sending it crashing into the stone floor. It shattered.

  I looked into Haldor’s eyes and saw triumph there, as well as regr
et. He brought his sword up for another blow—a fatal one.

  My mind seemed to know what my feet did not. I tried to dart to the side, but I wouldn’t make it. I closed my eyes.

  A bell tolled, loud and resonant. I opened my eyes. Haldor’s sword whooshed by my right side, diverted at the last moment.

  The first round had ended.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Saved by the bell. Huh. I didn’t think that sort of thing ever happened in real life. And here I’d been, only a moment before, reflecting on how I didn’t have much luck. Apparently I’d been saving it for the right moment.

  To my embarrassment, my legs picked that moment to give up. They pitched me unceremoniously to the Arena floor. I could breathe again, and I took the opportunity to swallow large gulps of air. My chest ached, my arms burned. I’d survived the first round, but I had only a few objects left to transform, and I’d lost my sword. I still had the gun, but no more bullets. My gaze found Tristan in the stands, sitting at the feet of a very smug-looking Grian. Well, I wasn’t dead yet.

  A hand reached down to help me up. Haldor’s hand. “You fought well,” he said as I took it. He gave only a slight pull and I was on my feet.

  “I’m not done,” I said, my lips pressed together.

  He gave me a short, quick nod. We broke away, each going to our separate sides. Maybe he thought the same thing I did—that one of us had to kill the other—better not get too closely acquainted.

  I checked my items, trying to find something else I could fashion into a sword. Only plastic and wood. Any sword made out of these things would shatter more easily than my butter-knife one.

  A door opened in the white wall of the Arena before me. So I got a rest then, before round two? Good. I could use some downtime. I strode inside.

  The Arbiter waited for me.

  “Changeling,” he said, his voice low, “you will have the chance to switch out one of your items before the second round.” A light flickered below his hood. Eyes. “Someone is here to see you. He says he is your Second.”