He couldn’t be sure the color wasn’t reflecting off their uniforms, but the Ire folk appeared slightly green. The Solati moved with the same silent grace that a smart Bruma knew to be extremely wary of—though some of them appeared to be shivering violently. Cold opponents moved slow, but he doubted they’d be cold for long.
The king lifted his hand and the tumultuous roar in the arena cut off.
“To Bruma, Solati, and Ire folk alike,” he boomed. “Myself and Queen Lina welcome you to the very first Interworld Games.”
A thrum of nervous excitement pulsed through Shard, coiling the muscles in his legs. The king waited as the crowd roared and stamped their feet in response.
He held out a hand and Lina joined him, the six-month-old Kendra balanced on her hip.
The Dome hushed abruptly. So quiet, Shard felt like he could scuff the ground and everyone would hear.
“Seven category winners, one ultimate warrior, and one victorious world will be found over the course of four days,” the queen called, her unfaltering voice carrying through the space and echoing through the stands.
The crowd listened to her every word, perhaps hooked by the obvious power, depth, and warmth he’d heard the first time she spoke. She could whisper and still hold their attention.
The queen gestured to the other leaders. “We extend a special welcome to Yarik, leader of the Ire, and his trainer, Rhone.”
Yarik dipped his head to her and Rhone bowed slightly.
“Don’t look like his spine likes bowing,” Ice wondered aloud.
Blizzard sniggered.
“To my brother, Tatum Landon, I extend the same welcome,” she continued. “As well as congratulations on his recent marriage to Greta, one of our own. Glacium wishes you both many happy years together.”
The crowd roared in response, their volume increasing when Landon wrapped an arm around Greta’s shoulders.
Blizzard spoke. “Does anyone like him way more since he married Greta?”
“He had the sense to marry a Bruma girly,” Ice said, crossing his arms. “Makes me like the whole of Osolis a lot more.”
Shard shot an amused look at Avalanche, who glanced briefly up at the sky.
“Now, please welcome our master of ceremonies for the games,” the king announced to the crowd. “Sin.”
All four of them groaned at the sight of a shirtless Sin striding from the door to join the rulers on the stage, an Ire woman by his side.
He helped the shorter woman up onto the stage and then leaped up himself.
“People of the tri-worlds! Are you ready?” he shouted, winding up his arm.
Shard clapped with everyone else despite himself. Sin had come a long, long way since marrying Lorna. And he’d always possessed a raw charisma that somehow made him likeable, despite the extensive, extensive list of his unlikeable qualities.
Love changed people.
Sin’s voice deepened. “For twelve months, fifty warriors from each world have trained for this. Very. Moment. In this dome, you will bear witness to their sweating stamina, to their explosive power, to their lethal speed as these men and women compete to be named the tri-world’s first ultimate warrior.”
Shard’s current predicament raced back to the forefront of his mind and he tuned out the master of ceremonies, his eyes scanning the space. Fighters hopped from foot to foot; people in the crowds stood ramrod still as they listened to Sin. An undercurrent of tension drew tight, a bow ready to loose.
He shook off his nerves as Sin waved a hand at the Ire woman he’d brought onto the stage.
“Is that Rhone’s wife?” a man asked.
Shard glanced to his right, spotting Sanjay. “Monikah, yeah. You’re fighting?”
Sanjay grinned. “I could choose to be insulted by your obvious surprise. But I couldn’t do anything about it anyway, so I won’t. No, not fighting. Some people are lovers. Which I often do. Twice this morning, actually.”
“Good to know,” Shard said drily.
“I’m reading out the fighting pools today.” Sanjay held up a large scroll. “Making myself useful.”
It could be assumed Sanjay had been made useful rather than taking the initiative. Shard watched the orange-bearded man blow a kiss to his wife, Fiona, up on the tier.
Was everyone married and happy? Seemed that way.
“Who have I got first?” Shard asked him.
“I’m not supposed to reveal anything,” the Bruma said firmly. He unrolled the parchment and scanned the contents. “Shardy, Shardy, Shardy. M, P, T, Shard. Okay, you’re on agility first against a whole heap of names I don’t recognize. And Avalanche.”
Blizzard eyed the hulking man between them and leaned forward. “At least you won’t come last.”
Avalanche punched the minister of the people. Hard.
Sanjay furled the scroll again.
“Hold on,” Ice said to him. “Where do I start?”
“Must be getting on,” Sanjay said loudly. “I have a special place to stand to announce each pool.” He gestured up to the small platforms midway down each side of the Dome, about three meters above the floor.
Shard grinned at Ice’s angry mutter and returned his attention to the stage.
The sheet covering the large object was gone. A huge glass sculpture sat there; two wide ends tapered into a tiny space in the middle. The bottom half of the glass object was filled with dirt, the whole thing set in a gilded frame.
“Fuck is that?” Blizzard blurted.
Rhone had left the stage and was striding in their direction. Or to the Ire team just behind.
His wife moved up to the glass structure and took hold of the top, her pale face determined. She glanced back at Sin, who lifted his hand in the air.
“I proudly present the Ire’s new invention, the Time Teller,” he called. “Once the dirt runs out, fighters will have a fifteen-minute rest. It will be used throughout the day until we have our semi-final fighters for tomorrow.”
Shard blew out a breath. He just had to place as well as he could. A handful of spots in each category could make the difference. Each performance had to be his best. If he’d had longer to prepare, he would have worked out just what ranking was needed in each, but he’d spent the last hours making sure he had all the necessary weapons and supplies. He felt about as far from calm and collected as he’d ever been.
He hated feeling that way.
But surely if Shard finished in the top five of most of the events, that would be enough. And top ten in the others.
Sighing, he glanced around the other fighters. He had absolutely no idea.
Up on stage, Monikah pulled hard on the upper half of the Time Teller to no avail. A few giggles rang out from the crowd until the king reached over her head and helped out.
The Time Teller swung one hundred and eighty degrees, and dirt began to fall from the top to the bottom through the tiny space.
“Let the games begin!” Sin roared to the crowd, who returned his enthusiasm one-thousand-fold.
Huh. “That is . . . really clever,” Shard said after a beat, staring at the Time Teller.
“I don’t get it,” Ice said. “What does the stupid thing do?”
Rhone, walking alongside him, swung his head to look at the Outer Rings man.
Ice’s words trailed into silence, and Rhone continued on to join the Ire fighters.
Blizzard whispered, “Did you just shit yourself, Ice?”
Shard glanced past him, watching the royals retreat through the door. He shifted to look up at the platform where the assembly and their high-ranking guests sat.
Like fire in darkness, he found her shining blonde hair.
Did she watch him now? He couldn’t be sure. He hoped so. Just as he hoped this wasn’t all some cruel trick of hers. The look she’d given him last night hadn’t been imagined, he was sure. . . .
Or he’d been sure.
Shard shifted his focus to Sanjay, who was announcing the pools. The fighters crowded around, the audience also q
uietening to glean what they could.
“Once your first pool is done, come back for further instruction. Working from the far corner in a counter-revolution fashion,” Sanjay said, pointing to the corner opposite the stage. “Agility: First pool. Ojorn, Afarad, Orach, Shard, Avalanche, Pymi, Gregori, Zelda, Hamish, and Symon. Strength: First pool. . . .”
Shard’s mind whirled. Agility.
Three Solati, four Bruma, and three Ire folk in his pool. He assumed—he didn’t recognize the last three names, anyway. Pymi was one of Alzona’s girls and completely savage, though she heavily favored her right side. Gregori was also from the pits, and Shard had trained against him several times.
He wasn’t worried about the three Bruma in his pool; Bruma weren’t exactly known for their lightness of step. Luck was with him on that point, but the Ire folk lived in a place where one misstep could mean their death, and the Solati were graceful elegance personified.
There were one hundred and fifty fighters. Ten in each pool. Fifteen pools for each event. How many went through from each event into the next round? He couldn’t remember.
Avalanche tapped him on the shoulder, and Shard peered up at his friend.
“Coming?” Avalanche asked.
Shard blew out a breath. “Let’s do it.”
“Nervous?”
That was an understatement. Shard had fought for many things in the past. Hate, anger, justice, wealth, glory, victory, but he’d never fought for love. “Yes.”
“I’ll do my worst so you can place higher.”
Avalanche wasn’t exactly known for his delicate step, but the sentiment was nice all the same.
“I appreciate it,” Shard forced out.
They approached the roped-off area in the far corner, the two other Bruma falling in behind them. The Ire folk and Solati were already there, stretching. Rhone’s team were in a line doing weird exercises on their tiptoes.
The roped-off area contained a long beam suspended two meters off the ground. It would swing.
A series of sawn-off barrels were arranged in pairs in a row that extended five meters or so. The barrels became smaller and smaller as they reached the end.
A rope ladder hung from the center of a large frame. That would swing around too—great.
The last obstacle consisted of six solid boxes, three meters in height, arranged in a zigzag.
Hopefully he wasn’t first.
“Listen up, bitches.”
Avalanche cursed under his breath, and Shard nearly did the same.
“You knew Alzona was helping out?” Shard whispered.
“She’s one of the judges for this round,” Pymi said, leg extended as she bent over, stretching the backs of her legs.
Shard followed her lead and began to stretch as well. He’d cooled down while standing around. He sank into a series of squat jumps and hopped side to side until his breath came fast. He repeated the moves on the other leg and started again as his former barracks owner and all-around ruthless businesswoman, Alzona, ran through each of the obstacles.
She pointed to the beam. “Points will be removed for a bad landing off the beam, if you use your arms for balance, and how quickly you get across and up onto the beam from the starting mat.”
Alzona moved to the barrels on the ground. They were sawn off and extended halfway up her calf. The low barrels were grouped in pairs in a long row. She approached the first two of the side-by-side wooden rings and stuck a foot inside each one. Alzona began moving forward, lifting her knees high to clear each barrel and step inside the next. “Points will be removed for touching the barrels and speed will be timed.”
She continued on and he listened as hard as everyone else in the pool. He sneaked a glance at the other two judges—one from the Ire and one from Osolis. Probably a good thing to ensure Alzona didn’t just give the fighter from her barracks the highest score.
Alzona would do just about anything mostly ethical for money. Sometimes only a glimmer of good intent was needed to seal the deal.
The Solati judge joined her, paper in hand. “First round in order as read. Beam: Afarad. Barrels: Avalanche. Boxes: Zelda. Ladder: Symon.”
This was good. He wasn’t up first.
The three judges moved to the beam.
Alzona suspended a length of string over a fire pit next to a bucket of water. “When the string is lit, you start,” she instructed the Solati on the starting mat.
By this point, some of the other event pools must have begun, but Shard couldn’t hear anything except the happenings of his own contest. Blood pounded in his ears as Alzona dipped the end of the string into the flame.
Afarad ran and leaped catching hold of the beam and pulling himself up. Crouching for a moment, he stood carefully, pushing his hips right when the beam swung wildly to the left. Then he ran, arms flinging out horizontally four times before he reached the end and jumped off onto the red mat placed at the end.
He landed and stumbled, flinging his arms out again before regaining his position and standing tall.
Plunging the burning string into the bucket, Alzona passed the wet length to the Solati judge, who straightened the string and tied it to a piece of parchment, consulting with the other two before jotting a few notes down.
The blackened strings would be measured against each other to show the fastest time of completion.
Shard assessed the still-swinging beam. Far harder than it really was, if he had to guess. Winning would come down to not committing the small errors like stumbling and putting out his arms.
Avalanche moved to the sawn-off barrels. The giant placed his foot next to the first one. Shard frowned. Would his feet even fit inside those? The barrels became smaller as they went on. . . .
This time the Ire judge lit the string.
Avalanche took off, one foot in each barrel, lifting his knees high as he moved on to the second and third row. The ground shook with the weight of his steps.
The fourth pair of barrels was where things fell apart.
His feet were too big. The barrels began to lift with his feet, but Avalanche didn’t stop his forward momentum into the next barrels and the next. The half-calf length barrels began to build up his legs in stacks until, eventually, bending his knee was impossible.
Legs armored with barrels up to his thighs, Avalanche waddled stiffly to the end mat and stood silently.
Snorting, Alzona plunged the string and passed it over to the open-mouthed Solati judge.
“Well, we could’ve guessed that would happen,” Gregori said in a low voice as the judges helped Avalanche out of the barrels, shifting them back into position.
Correct. Except watching Avalanche hadn’t given Shard any idea how to complete the barrels successfully.
A petite woman he assumed was Zelda strode to the mat by the upright boxes. The boxes were custom-made for this obstacle—he’d never seen their like before, anyway. The sides were smooth but for the small spaces between the boards forming them. The Ire woman flexed into a squat, bouncing on her tiptoes.
The string was lowered to the flame and she took off, scuttling up the first box in seconds.
Shard’s mouth dropped open.
The boxes tested lateral agility.
Zelda stood upright on the first and then launched into a sideways jump, zig-zagging between the six boxes. She launched herself off the three-meter drop from the last box and landed softly, poised, arms relaxed at her sides.
The judges were smiling as they consulted each other.
Symon moved to the rope ladder next.
Shard shook off the heavy awe Zelda’s performance had inspired as Symon began.
The Ire man didn’t use the flat side of the rope ladder, opting to use the side. He worked up and down, the loose rope end swinging only slightly as he did so.
Symon raced back to the mat inside a minute.
The judges smiled.
Shard had to make them smile, too.
Alzona called out the next round in the
ir pool, working through their names. It wasn’t until the third round that his name cropped up.
“Shard: barrels,” she said, lifting her eyes, a scowl on her face that he remembered far too well from his time in her barracks.
Focus.
He strode to the starting mat, staring at the first two sawn-off barrels, and tried to visualize where he’d place his feet. Shard didn’t make the mistake of looking at the judges for the starting signal. He watched Alzona from the corner of his eye.
The string lit and he released the vibrating tension in his thighs, bringing his legs high. His feet made it inside the first barrel. Knees pumping furiously, he worked as quickly and accurately through the steadily shrinking barrels as he could. He didn’t touch the edges once and arrived at the finishing mat in a panting blur.
His arms dropped and he cursed. He’d forgotten about the arm thing! Were points docked for using arms for balance in this one?
Shard swung to look at the judges, but only Alzona was smiling—and smiling was a generous description of what might be a sneering smirk.
Leaving for the sidelines again, Shard only received one round to rest before it was his turn on the zigzag boxes. He managed to navigate them without falling on his face, though he stumbled on the landing.
He borrowed the method of the Ire man, Symon, for the ladder. After Afarad tried climbing the rungs and had trouble, everyone followed the Ire man’s lead.
Which only left. . . .
“Shard: beam,” Alzona shouted.
Dread filled him.
Avalanche had ended up shuffling across it, and they were all surprised when the beam didn’t break. The Ire folk had skimmed across the top as lightly as birds in the sky. The Solati were a mixed bag. Pymi had done surprisingly well, keeping her arms tucked in.
He had to remember that.
Shard made his way to the mat, slowing his breath. He raised onto the balls of his feet as the judges lined up.
The string was lit.
Shard sprinted for the beam, but instead of jumping to gain hold of the beam to draw himself up, he stretched upward for one of the thick ropes holding the beam aloft. Keeping his momentum, he swung himself on top and didn’t waste any time finding his footing.
Whether that would be his downfall, he had no time to consider. Arms tucked in, he raced down the beam, entirely focused on the rhythm on the log’s swing.
Shard: A Tainted Accords Novella, 4.8 Page 5