by R. K. Thorne
Andius rounded on the next nearest pair of men and pointed his sword, fire raging in his eyes.
Even though they were barely engaged, one cast his sword aside and ran for the archway. Andius turned to point his sword at the second, the apparent winner of that matchup, who fell to both knees and dropped his sword before him.
“I yield. May the goddesses guide Clan Leader Andius.”
The crowd’s voices rose in surprise, whipped back and forth with both shock and admiration. Was that move legal? Did they care?
Slowly, Andius spun and looked Nyalin directly in the eye. He raised his sword—a challenge.
But someone cut him to the chase. Cold steel suddenly pressed to his throat. Dark dragon, he’d paid for his distraction. He froze.
Faytou met his eyes as he moved closer, not moving the sword. Was there truly an option here? Faytou could kill him easily if that was truly his aim. He should just yield, as those other men had. Let brothers battle it out.
And yet… the memory of Lara’s head on his shoulder the night before stilled his lips. If there was a way out of this, he had to find it. If he tried to stagger back, could he get out of it fast enough to keep fighting? His friend wouldn’t slit his throat, would he?
But he wasn’t sure enough of that to actually try it.
Over Faytou’s shoulder, Andius started toward them.
Faytou felt it too, glancing back just once. His eyes were cold, narrowed. More determined than Nyalin could remember seeing them.
“You’ve been a good friend to me, Nyalin moLinali,” Faytou said softly. “And I do believe the goddesses chose us to fight for a reason.”
“What reason?” he whispered.
Faytou glanced back again. “I’ve fought my brother. He’s my brother. He’s beaten me before many times.”
“You may have gotten better.”
Behind him, Andius reached them and stopped short. Panting. Waiting.
“It doesn’t matter.” Faytou shook his head. “You should be the clan leader, not me. And not him.”
The cold was suddenly gone, and Faytou sunk out of view.
Nyalin staggered back to see his friend before him. On one knee, his sword offered up across his palms.
“I yield,” Faytou shouted. “And I pledge my support to Nyalin moLinali.”
The crowd erupted, murmurs and shouts crashing against them like the sea.
Nyalin didn’t have much time to absorb it though. Faytou barely got out of the way as Andius crashed past him.
And the fight was joined again. Andius didn’t have the finesse that Faytou did, but what he lacked in style he made up for in strength.
But what had Myandrin told him? Andius was predictable.
Yes, now that he watched, it was the same five or seven strokes each time. And the cheating was the same, but it too was regular.
The fifth blow this time was the strange one. Four strikes in a row of similar force were easily parried and then—wham. It was like a tree had fallen on his sword.
He staggered back, collapsing to the ground, every bone in his arm aching. His shoulder and elbow screamed in pain. Andius stood panting, frowning at his sword in his hand. Didn’t he know who was tampering on his behalf?
Or were they only cheating against Nyalin, not in favor of Andius?
Nyalin dragged himself to his feet. The next sequence began, and this time Nyalin waited… waited... and then just as the fifth, stronger blow began, he ducked, swinging his leg out wide.
Andius’s feet went out from beneath him, and he went down with a cry. From the ground, he writhed for a moment, swearing and slashing in Nyalin’s direction as he rolled away.
Nyalin hurried after him. Andius started to scramble to his feet but only made it to his knees. Unfortunately, he was perfectly capable of parrying from there.
Nyalin struck down with all the force he could muster, willing the sword to fall from the man’s hands, willing him to yield.
Instead, his next blow hit like he’d struck an iron anvil. Both his arms shook, streaking with fresh pain, and then something outright knocked him back.
A few cries went up from the crowd, suddenly suspicious. Yes, you could hide using energy spells to push a sword harder down, but knocking a man around was much more obvious.
Whoever was helping Andius, they were protecting him too. And they might not even care if anyone knew.
This was going to be a long battle.
Both men were dripping with sweat—and a few drops of blood—as the sun rose higher in the sky. The first round of matches settled, and new opponents squared off. Unira’s man went straight for Linali’s boy, just as he’d been told.
But it was dragging on. And on. And on. They hadn’t counted on both sides cheating. And who could even be helping him? It didn’t matter. Since they paid off the officials to ignore the signs of cheating, there’d be no hope they’d figure it out anyway.
Several of the second round of matches settled, with the losers yielding and limping from the field. A few eyed Andius, waiting to see the outcome.
It wasn’t nearly as close as Unira would have liked. She folded her hands in her lap as an idea began to form. She’d never be able to cast the spell here, in front of all these people, with the precision she’d need to keep it hidden and without a scent. But maybe Zama could. His abilities seemed greater than hers—although she was still figuring out how exactly—but at times, at a basic level, they weren’t so different.
“I know how to end this,” Unira whispered, a delicious smile on her lips.
Zama raised an eyebrow.
She bent closer and cupped a hand to whisper in his ear. “If the boy can’t speak, the boy can’t yield. Even if he wants to. Give him a taste of death that’s waiting for him a little early.”
Chuckling, Zama rubbed his palms together. “My dear, it would be my pleasure.”
The fight dragged on and on, every brutal cheating blow followed by dragon magic and Nyalin’s increasingly desperate attempts to turn the tide. Every muscle in his body ached, so it was hard to notice exactly when it started. But at some point, a tightness started to form in his jaw.
The tightness morphed into an ache, even though he hadn’t been struck there. Yet. And though Yeska toiled away healing his other wounds, this one seemed to get no attention. It just got worse and worse.
Was it getting harder to breathe?
He had to end this.
Fortunately, they were both exhausted, in spite of any help that might have been bolstering them. He dare not glance around to see how many men were left standing, but the ring itself was quieter than before. They had more space around them.
He had always been fast. And better with his hands. Strength with a blade, splitting a practice dummy in two with both hands on the hilt—those had never been his style. All this nonsense was making him play directly into his weaknesses. He needed to try something new.
On the next attack, he didn’t focus on parrying. He let himself focus, slow down, and as Andius went through his motions—one, two, three, four, thrust hard—Nyalin kept his calm. The thrust was wild, Andius having lost much of his usual control to fatigue, and Nyalin slipped just slightly to one side and lunged forward as well.
He was open, and he had to be fast—but fortunately the move was just different enough to startle Andius, leaving a breath of an opening. Nyalin grabbed Andius’s wrist with his left and yanked him forward, his blade resting awkwardly against the length of Andius’s arm. Then Nyalin brought up his knee and drove it into his opponent’s stomach.
Andius doubled forward, groaning, and almost lost his grip on his sword. Almost.
But it didn’t matter because Nyalin followed up quickly. He slid his mother’s sword the last few inches to rest the cold steel against Andius’s throat.
They both froze.
Nyalin was panting hard now, and his whole jaw ached so much he could barely part his lips to take in air. But it didn’t matter. It was close. It was
almost over.
“Yield,” he whispered. Although the words were more of an unintelligible grunt than anything else.
Andius’s eyes narrowed as he growled low in the back of his throat. “I’ll never yield to you.”
He jerked, trying to jostle free, but Nyalin still held his wrist too. He pressed the blade harder against the skin.
Last chance, he wanted to whisper, but it ached too much. Was he really going to have to kill Andius to end this? And if Andius really did refuse to yield—what would that mean? Was it still possible to win? Would he have broken the rules if he spilled Andius’s blood into the sand?
The hesitation was just too long. The force that was helping Andius chose that moment to act, slamming him in the stomach. Sucker punched—and he couldn’t even see his attacker. A flicker of the green world threatened to overwhelm, but he shoved it away. He couldn’t do that here—there would be too many questions. And crossing over was technically magic. And whoever was helping Andius wasn’t usually attacking with energy, so he might not have enough power to cross over anyway.
He hadn’t recovered from the gut punch before it was followed up with another blow—this time to the jaw. The agony made yellow blotches flash before his eyes, and his lip split, sending blood spraying. He collapsed back into the sand, sprawling.
The air thudded out of his lungs and wouldn’t return.
Gasping, heaving for breath, he struggled and desperately twisted to get to his stomach, to his hands and knees. Anything was better than this.
The crowd was jeering, nearly roaring. They hadn’t missed that. Whoever was helping Andius was not hiding it anymore. Officials had stepped forward, but there was no magic from Andius for them to detect. One held up a Ward spell whose shape glittered in the sunlight but didn’t change or give warning.
Andius’s laugh as he staggered forward was cruel, brutal. As he neared Nyalin, he kicked at the sand. A spray hit Nyalin straight into his face.
He struggled to breathe, to clear the sand even as Andius’s foot met his ribs. He swore at the pain—or he tried to.
No sound came out. In fact, his entire jaw, lips, teeth—none of it would move.
And suddenly he understood.
Yeska—something’s wrong. Very, very wrong. It’s like my jaw is… frozen. He rolled hastily away. By the Twins, let him not collide with another fight. He might not get away from Andius this way, but he had to try. If the bastard got a knife to his Nyalin’s throat right now, everyone would say, well, the boy should have yielded. What a loss.
It is the darkness. It grows bold, growled Yeska.
I don’t know what that means.
I’ll tell Lara. It means you’ve been cursed. By a necromancer—or worse.
Lara was chewing viciously on a nail when Yeska’s voice bit into her thoughts. She jumped, almost knocking back the hood.
That darkness that I told you is coming?
Lara’s eyes widened. She pulled the hood tighter around her face. She’d barely been aware of anything other than the match playing out before her. Yes?
It is here. Here in the stadium.
Lara glanced around. As if that would help. Not like there’d be a heavy storm cloud floating in the stands. A quarter of the crowd was ominous-looking and black-clad just because they were Obsidians. What’s going on?
It has cursed his vocal cords. Or maybe his mouth. He can’t speak. It’s spreading.
Sweet goddesses—we’ve got to do something.
Yes. I am trying, but this is complex. And still being cast.
Her heart leapt out of her chest at those words, and it leapt harder as he went down. Think—think! Pyaris’s book had talked all about curses, but she’d never tried any of it. She hadn’t had the occasion to even see a curse, let alone break one. She groped blindly, hunting the dark energy.
Andius swung. Nyalin rolled right.
The blow crashed into the stadium’s sandy floor, cracking it like a dish shattering.
The next swing came. Nyalin rolled to dodge left. He couldn’t get a moment to get to his feet. Lara couldn’t get a moment to get a handle on the curse. He kept moving, and even when he was still, she hardly knew what she was looking for.
The third blow smashed an even larger crater into the sand and concrete floor. Nyalin was clutching his sword arm to him like it was useless, barely hanging onto the weapon as he rolled.
Yeska poured energy into the wound, but it wouldn’t be enough. Andius had too much of an advantage now, there wasn’t enough time to find the curse, let alone break it. She should have brought Pyaris. She should have guessed this might happen.
Nyalin brought his sword up just enough to block as Andius fell over him, pressing their locked swords across his neck, twisting, turning, trying to get traction.
“Yield!” cried someone in the stands, horrified.
“Yield!” another cry, and another.
The blades slid with a horrific sound—brutal and abrupt. She stopped breathing.
“Yield! Yield! Yield!” The stands were chanting, unending.
But he couldn’t, could he. His chin was raised high, avoiding the blade, but it didn’t move.
Damn her lack of energy spells. She glanced around hopelessly. What could she do? She couldn’t push back the blade. Most other magic that could torment Andius would be obvious and clearly visible.
She raced from her position high in the stadium down the nearby stairs, not out of the place now but toward the center, toward the teeming front row of seats.
Andius pressed the blade harder.
She couldn’t even hear Nyalin grunt, and maybe he couldn’t, but the strain was apparent on his face. She caught a glimpse of a pocket of black, seething energy, but lost it right away.
She stopped at the railing, colliding with it almost absently. By Dala’s light, she had to do something. This was all because of her.
All her fault.
Should I throw Andius off him?
You can’t. Then they’ll know. Or they’ll think Nyalin did it and that he cheated.
Well, he did.
But not like that. And all of this will all be for naught.
It is all for naught anyway, because you are already their clan leader.
This isn’t the time, Yeska. We have to help him.
I’m holding back the blade as delicately as I can. Curses aren’t my specialty, and whoever keeps casting it is strong. They’re not letting it slide. Aside from smashing Andius into the city wall, what would you suggest?
She bit her lip, having no answer to that. The image was gratifying, though. She’d told him not to get himself killed, damn it!
She caught hold of the curse. It was nothing familiar—a hideous dark mass of energy. Odorless and black. Reeling at the sensation, she clutched at her chest as Nyalin’s blade slipped. Andius’s reached an inch closer, touching the skin.
Yeska!
Sorry! I was looking at the curse too.
Fixing that doesn’t help—I don’t want him to yield. If he does, Andius wins.
I’m sorry, my daughter. But Andius has won, it seems. We simply must save the boy’s life. He doesn’t deserve to die here.
No, he doesn’t.
And then the blood pounding in her ears, the screaming crowd, the seething dark, the grunts and groans—all of it fell away. She would never belong to Andius. And it was true, there as no way out of this that wouldn’t make their cheating obvious. Both sides hadn’t played fair, but one side was winning. But she would never belong to Andius. Ever. She already belonged to someone else.
She knew what she had to do.
She threw back the hood and leapt over the rail. Cries of shock and shouts went up as her boots landed in the dirt.
There was really no going back now. There never had been. She dug into her bag as she ran, gripped the bone handle.
Yeska. Are you close?
Yes.
I will need you.
I know. I am coming. I am ready
.
Good.
So are you.
She leapt over the remains of a broken sword stand, dodged a crater in the sand, and sprinted for them.
She stopped just behind the man she was supposed to marry. The one she’d sworn she never would.
“Andius.” Her voice was cold. The crowd hushed, straining to hear her words. “Put down the sword.”
Several officials had staggered a few steps forward, but they stopped, torn between duty and curiosity as to what this mad girl was doing on the field.
Andius froze, glancing back once over his shoulder. He let out a crazed bark of incredulous laughter. “Have you lost your mind? Get out of here, before you get dust on your pretty crossover.”
Gasps went up left and right, the crowd quieting further to listen.
“I said, step back.” Her eyes on Andius were harder than granite, but her hair blew around her face like flames licking at the sky. “Step back and leave him be.”
“Why should I listen to you, woman? I’m the clan leader here, and everyone knows it. Except maybe this Obsidian dog. And I’m about to show him for certain.”
“No, you aren’t.”
“Yes. I. Am.” He jerked, pressing harder. Nyalin frowned. It might have been a wince if his mouth could move. Was that a trickle of red under Andius’s blade?
There was no more time for negotiation.
She drew her hand from her pocket. Sunlight caught on the shining blade, as nearly an entire stadium caught its breath.
“Our clanblade is mine. That makes me the clan leader.” Her voice wasn’t loud, but it seemed to echo in the stunned silence.
Silence except for Yeska’s triumphant chortle in her mind.
That’s right. She had it. Let them know. Let them all know the truth, damn it. She had it. She deserved it. The dragon that had withdrawn its power from their clan talked to her, chose her, served her. Not him.
She pressed the cold tip of the Dagger of Bone against the base of his skull.
“Are you a loyal member of your clan? I’ve given you my orders. Drop. Your. Sword.”
Whispers flew through the crowd, even as it struggled to be silent.