Storm Princess 2: The Princess Must Strike

by Everly Frost

  Cassian folds his arms across his broad chest. “Whoever knocks the other one out first.”

  A single blow to the head can kill someone. Not to mention Arlo’s head is quite a way above me. I’d rather there was at least one other possibility.

  “Is yielding an option?” I ask, drawing derisive laughter from Erit’s team.

  Erit calls, “Do you want to yield already, Lady Storm?”

  I ignore him. My opponent, Arlo, doesn’t laugh at me. Unlike Erit, this gargoyle appears to have smarts. He’s calm, not edgy, already assessing the way I move, calculating how the fight will go down. The way he studies me tells me he’s not going to underestimate me like the others might. I’m actually sorry he’s part of Erit’s team. He seems like the kind of gargoyle Roar would have picked if Roar hadn’t been forced to use up one of his choices on me.

  “Sure,” Cassian says, the corner of his mouth twitching upward, making his eyes smile in a way that doesn’t quite match the fact that he’s here to kill anyone who steps out of line. He seems oddly entertained by Erit’s arrogance. Of course, unlike the other gargoyles here, he has seen me fight. “Either one of you may yield.”

  “Good.” I stare hard at my opponent. “Because knocking Arlo out could mean he won’t be able to mine today. I’d hate to do that to him.”

  Erit’s team laughs and jeers, but I ignore them, circling Arlo to indicate that I’m done asking questions. I don’t look back, but I sense Iago and Welsian’s approval from where they stand behind me. The louder Erit’s team shouts at me, the more I know my confidence is having an impact.

  Arlo paces opposite so that we keep our distance from each other. I don’t bother reaching for my storm power. I haven’t felt its force since I cut the connection with Baelen yesterday. It’s just me and my fists now. And perhaps my boots.

  May as well get this thing started.

  I dart forward.

  Just like Iago predicted, Arlo goes for the quick knock out right away. A big fist cuts toward the side of my head, the size and color of a large rock. I have no doubt it will feel like one. I duck and, as his fist sails over my head, I follow through with a kick to his exposed side, connecting with his ribs. He’s light on his feet and bounces sideways, reducing the impact my boot would have had. Nothing broken. This time.

  As I dance around him, he keeps his fists up—just like I do. He speaks, keeping his voice neutral, matter of fact. “I figured I’d at least try for a quick end to this fight, Lady Storm.”

  “Fair enough, Arlo,” I reply, acknowledging that he addressed me with respect. “I’m sorry this is how we get to meet each other.”

  He gives me a quick nod. He’s done talking and so am I. He comes at me again and this time he hunches down to my level. Two quick jabs almost get through my defenses. I barely miss the blows. I’m going to have to truly dance around this male to avoid those rocks he calls fists.

  As I spin around him, I kick out at his left leg. It’s not a firm blow, but it lands. He reacts defensively, confirming Welsian’s advice—he’s vulnerable there. If not physically, then mentally.

  We trade blows for another three minutes straight. It’s clearly longer than the other gargoyles expected me to last, because they fluctuate between shouting and silence. The silences tend to follow the hits I land. The shouting is when Arlo connects, which he does more often than I like. Mostly, it’s when he uses his wings to give him speed, but in this closed in space, thankfully they aren’t a massive advantage.

  Another two minutes later, my boot connects with his left leg again and this time panic flashes across his face, quickly hidden. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve got through his defenses—or how many times he’s gotten through mine. Blood slides from a cut in my lip and another above my eye. I’m tired. But so is he. Iago told me to wear Arlo down, but I’m wearing down too.

  It’s time to admit that I don’t know how to beat him. Our stamina is matched. He’s worried about his leg but so far he hasn’t made any big mistakes in my favor.

  He swings his giant fist once more, another knock-out blow, and I barely avoid contact with my temple. My vision blurs. Arlo has clipped my head one too many times. It will only take one more hit and I’m out.

  If Cassian is true to his word, I won’t have to fight again today, but I’m not sure when my team will have another chance to pick a tunnel. Erit only picked me because he believed Arlo could beat me. If Erit’s team wins this round, then Badenoch gets to pick the next fight. He won’t pick a battle against Roar or Llion or Welsian—or even Iago for that matter. It doesn’t take a genius to know that my team has some of the most intimidating fighters in it. We could end up getting the fifth tunnel simply because nobody wants to fight us.

  Desperation is a terrible emotion. I push at it, but it pushes back. It wants in. I can’t let it or I’ll be the one making mistakes.

  Whatever sounds the watching gargoyles make don’t reach me anymore. At some point, I’ve blocked them out, focused only on my target. But as I feint right to miss another of Arlo’s attempts to knock me out, a voice reaches me across the distance.

  It’s Baelen’s voice. Much younger. A memory I haven’t thought about for years…

  He says: I’ve thought of a way for you to beat them.

  It’s as clear as if he’s standing beside me and we’re fourteen years old again. I’m suddenly back in the Rath mansion, sweeping the hallway between the upper bedrooms, surrounded by carved wooden doorways and elegant tapestries…

  The flashback is so vivid that it stuns me.

  I almost don’t move in time to avoid Arlo’s swinging fist. At the last moment, I duck, glide, giving myself as much room as possible, because Baelen’s voice is so insistent. I can’t push it away. I have to let the memory in.

  My body moves in the present, defending myself, moving without thought as the past consumes me, the memory takes over…

  The broom hurt my hands. It was harder to sweep that day because of my bleeding palms. I’d hidden them from my mother and regretted it. Not bandaging my hands meant there was nothing between my raw skin and the wooden handle. I’d stopped sweeping, staring at my shaking hands, when I discovered that Baelen stood a little further down the hallway. A respectful distance. He never came close enough to invade my space.

  He cast an acknowledging nod at my skinned knees and said, “I’ve thought of a way for you to beat them.”

  The visiting Valor boys had pushed me again. They spent every summer at the Rath House training with Baelen’s father, part of a group of boys chosen from the major Houses for the honor of being trained by the Commander of the elven army. They always managed to shove me when there was something sharp for me to fall against. And nobody to see them do it. This time it was the pebbled pathway at the side of the house and all its tiny, jagged rocks.

  For now it was shoves and trips, but I was worried about how much worse it could get, especially as we got older, what else they might do. Entitled brutes.

  Baelen waited for me to say something. Maybe he read my mind, my silent plea to him.

  “I could beat them up for you.” It was a statement of fact rather than conceit. He could turn them into pulp. “But that won’t make them leave you alone. They’ll get sneakier and I don’t want that. You need to fight them yourself.”

  “I can’t.” The admission hurt more than the wounds. I tugged on my braid, a nervous gesture I was trying to conquer. “I’m too little.”

  I presented him with my back, snatching up the broom from where I’d laid it against the wall, wincing at the renewed pain. “There’s no way for me to fight them.”

  He spoke at the same time I did, something I didn’t hear. Funny how my misery had blanked out his softly spoken statement, my voice drowning out his. I’d said I was too little and he whispered something in response and now I hear it in my memory… You’re perfect.

  He paused, cleared his throat. “I’ve been thinking about what you could do. And I’ve figure out a
way. A way that means being smaller is an advantage.”

  I propped the broom upright in the crook of my arm. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, Baelen, but I don’t think…”

  He took a step forward, the simple movement silencing me. He waited with one hand out, palm open. “It’s a move I call ‘the tangle.’ But I’ll have to touch you to show you.” He waited, giving me time to consider, waiting for permission. “May I?”

  Yes.

  The tangle.

  I haven’t used that move since I left the biggest Valor boy screaming on the ground and told the others they’d get worse if they touched me again. It should work even better on a gargoyle with wings...

  I snap back to the present and out of automatic defensive mode. Arlo jabs with his right hand, leaving his right side exposed. I bounce upward, left knee bent, connecting with the soft part of his stomach beneath his ribs. My left isn’t my strongest leg, but it makes an impact.

  With an oomph he bends reactively at the waist and knees. I rebound to the ground, but I’m ready. I leap back to him and use his bent knee and then his slightly spread wings as platforms, one after the one, to stride up his body. Racing to the height of his shoulders, I kick my right leg out and swing both my legs around his neck. My calves close around his neck and my body swings all the way around to his chest where I drop my full weight to the ground, hands to the floor as if I’m doing a hand stand. Except that my legs are locked around his neck.

  The sudden weight jerks him forward. He drops, head first, rolls, and lands on his back with a cracking thud. Without releasing his neck, I use my stomach muscles to sit up, grab his right arm and hook my own around it, locking my hands together around his arm. He kicks and thumps at my torso but I tighten the tangle around his neck, squeezing his windpipes and lying against his arm to push it in the direction it doesn’t want to go.

  The whole move took seconds. Seconds to ground him and force him into compliance. The only difference between Arlo and the Valor boy is that I haven’t broken Arlo’s arm yet.

  I’m leaning half on his arm and that means I’m propped up far enough to see his face. He’s afraid. He can’t mine with a broken arm. And if he can’t mine… I don’t know what will happen to him. I wish I’d asked Cassian what happened to the injured gargoyles he was telling me about yesterday.

  “I don’t want to break your arm,” I hiss, trying not to let anyone else hear. “Yield!”

  There’s the barest flicker of his gaze to Erit. The rest of Erit’s team is screaming at Arlo to get up, to beat me. The stark reality is that yielding isn’t an option for him.

  I slip my upper leg over his face, releasing his neck but not his arm yet, knowing that his instinct will be to get up, but because I still control his arm, he has to move in my direction. As soon as he leans toward me, I let go of his arm, freeing my left fist to slam into his forehead. His own upward momentum adds to the force.

  Lights out.

  He slumps. His head falls backward but my leg is there, ready to cushion his fall. Ow. I’ll have a massive bruise across my calf later, but it’s better than letting him crack the back of his head on the hard ground. He’s already unconscious. I don’t need him injured any more than that. He may be my opponent, but he’s not my enemy.

  I release him from the tangle, lower his head to the ground, and check his pulse. It’s strong. He shouldn’t be out for long.

  I glide to my feet to the sound of silence, retying my hair and smoothing down my clothing. I scan the watching group from Erit to Roar, past Jasper’s approving nod, and finally to Llion. Nobody says anything, not even Cassian, so I decide it’s my turn to speak.

  “You don’t know me,” I say, turning in a slow circle. “You don’t know where I’ve come from or what I can do.” I take a deep breath. I’m in the calm before the effects of the fight hit me—the bruises and the pain—but I’m determined to grip this moment with both hands and use it.

  “My name is Marbella of the House of Mercy. In Erawind they call me the Storm Princess, but I wasn’t born into privilege. I was raised as a servant in the House of Rath.” I stop moving, finding myself facing Erit. “I didn’t come here to fight you. I came here to help someone who is very important to me. I am not your enemy.”

  Cassian steps forward. I can’t tell what he’s thinking or whether I’ve taken up too much air space. He asks, “Which tunnel do you choose, Princess?”

  I turn to Roar. As my leader, it has to be his choice. By deferring to him, I’ll send a message to the other gargoyles that I’m part of Roar’s team. I’m not fighting for myself. I’m a miner just like them.

  Roar holds up three fingers in front of his chest. He wants me to choose the third tunnel—the safest one with the highest chance of containing a Heartstone. But as I open my mouth to speak, my ears buzz, drowning out my own voice in a high-pitched whine. I shake my head, trying to clear the sibilant whisper filling my ears: The fifth one. Fifth one. Fifth. Fif-thththth.

  I’ve taken too many hits to the head and the pain is setting in. I ignore the suicidal urge to nominate the fifth tunnel. I have no idea where that idea’s coming from and I’m not about to give in to it. “The third tunnel,” I say.

  Most of the gargoyles visibly slump and many groan. Everyone wants the third tunnel. I’m only sorry about Badenoch’s team. Because Erit lost, he gets to choose his next opponent and he won’t choose to fight anyone from Badenoch’s strong team. I just hope Erit wins the next round, because then Badenoch can choose after that. The first and second tunnels are still up for grabs, but very soon only the fourth and fifth will remain.

  I lean down to Arlo, gesturing to the nearest gargoyles. “Help me move him, please. But be careful to support his head.”

  Erit sends two of his team members to take over. When I try to help them, Cassian gets in my way. “Get back to your team, Princess. And to your tunnel.”

  Already? “We don’t stay for the next fight?”

  “Why would you?” he asks. “You’re wasting valuable digging time. You only get your tunnel for a week.”

  He’s right, but I cast a worried glance at Jasper. I need to know where he ends up. Llion suddenly appears beside me, tugging me away before the guards can reach for their bone lashes.

  He murmurs, “If Twisted Metal gets a tunnel below ours, we’ll see his team pass by. You can worry about him then. For now, focus on your own recovery.”

  He’s right. I need to conserve my energy. Allow my body to heal.

  Unless Jasper gets hurt in a fight. Then he won’t be going anywhere. I sense his chocolate eyes following me and when I glance back one last time, I find him standing tall beside Badenoch.

  Jasper nods. Once. Go on, the gesture says. I’ll be okay.

  You’d better be.

  17

  The third tunnel yawns before us. Five guards take up position at the mouth of the cave beside the entrance. Llion urges me inside the tunnel with the others, but it doesn’t take him long to bail Roar up.

  “Lady Storm fought hard,” he says to the blue-winged gargoyle. “She needs to take it easy today.”

  Roar claps Llion on the shoulder. “I understand, friend. And I agree. Today she can learn about mining, but we won’t push it.”

  Satisfied with that, Llion joins Welsian and Iago as they disappear further inside the tunnel. The faint clatter of buckets banging against their shovels as they walk tells me how far ahead they are.

  “How do you know that a heartstone is buried under this mountain anyway?” I ask Roar as he hands me a pickaxe.

  He ambles down the tunnel as he says, “We don’t know for sure. We only have legends to guide us. But the first heartstone was found in the heart of Mount Virtuous so there’s some proof to support the stories.”

  “Virtuous is a clan name, isn’t it? Are all of your mountains named after your clans?”

  He laughs. “Actually, our clans are named after our mountains. They are the names of the gargoyles who gave th
eir lives for our new world: Prime, Virtuous, Lightsworn, Sunflight, Denrock, just to name a few. Even that son of a… er… even Grievous decided it was worth giving his life to save his people.”

  “What about the Supreme Incorruptible? Is there a mountain named after the royal line?”

  Roar shakes his head. “The gargoyle King Supreme gave his life to separate the layers of the Earth, which means that his body didn’t form a mountain. His wife Queen Incorruptible became the moon and the legend is that her heart remains in the moon above us. But as for the King’s Heartstone, nobody knows. Some gargoyles say that Mount Erador hides it, but I don’t think so. To answer your question: there isn’t a Mount Supreme.”

  “Is that why Howl said there were twenty-seven more chances? He doesn’t count the royal hearts?”

  “That’s right. And even if they are found, they’re useless to him.”

  I slip the pickaxe into one of my pockets, wiping my mouth with my sleeve. Luckily, most of the bleeding has stopped, but I’ll sport a puffy lip later today. Before we left the Cavity, Roar spread a gummy sort of glue along the cut above my eye, telling me it would keep it closed so it can heal. “I would have thought the royal hearts would be the most powerful.”

  “Oh, they are. Incredibly dangerous. King Supreme’s heart is the most dangerous of all. But only a gargoyle from the royal line can handle them and not be instantly killed. Even if he found one, Howl could never use it.”

  A heartstone that could kill Howl. The fact that there is anything in our world that could defeat that monster gives me hope. “You said the first heartstone was found in Mount Virtuous, so I’m guessing that was the heart of Virtuous then?”

  “Virtuous was known for her kindness. Mercy. A bit like your elven House I guess.” His expression turns dark in the light of the spider web. “It’s ironic given the atrocities Howl has committed with her heart.”

  I remember that the Heartstone had caused Howl to react strongly to my pity while it was non-reactive to my anger. That would make sense if the gargoyle it belonged to was known for her kindness.