Iron Elf - A Race Reborn (Book 2) (12 page)

He showed me what a real fireball looked like. It screamed across the distance and I barely blocked it with my shield. It dispersed the heat and force, showering me with ice. I staggered back. This was all wrong. I’d never been good at externalized magic. I couldn’t throw energy the way a standard combat mage did, all sound and fury.

Internalized magic, however—I tore out a cobblestone and threw it.

People think enhanced strength is easy to come by because labourers use it. It’s not flashy. Earth magic tends not to be. But it’s one thing pull a plough with it and another to fight with it. You’re basically reinforcing your bones and muscles with force fields. Force lines, since there’s nothing solid about them—they’re just your mind moving things. All magic is telekinesis, and when you’re using it on your own body you have to imagine a scaffold that follows your every movement.

And I do mean every movement. Harden your bones or boost your muscles too much and you might rip something. Miscalculate during a lift and it’s crush or be crushed. It’s a delicate operation, even when you’re hauling sacks of grain. Doing it at combat speeds can tear your arms off. But when you’re good at it, you can be stronger than anything. The cobblestone flew fast enough to take someone’s head off. Belroth met it with his shield. The rock turned into sand but still knocked him off his feet.

“She can’t do that!” One of his friends tried to rush to his aid but Czeleborn drew his sword. “No, she can. Improvised weapons are allowed.”

I approached my fallen foe. Belroth’s clothes were tattered and the skin of his arm and chest was mottled red. I kept my guard up just in case, and was only slightly surprised when he threw a fireball in my face.

Stoneskin is another earth technique. You lose speed and flexibility and gain unbreakable skin, for certain values of unbreakable. Like enhanced strength, it takes decades to master. Your skin is moving all the time—you can’t harden it to the point that you can’t breathe, much less walk. Not for long.

As soon as Belroth cast the fireball I closed my eyes and made like a statue. My heart stopped. My flesh became like steel. The explosion hurled me through the nearest restaurant window, through the dining area, and into the kitchen. I remembered to unfreeze enough so I didn’t kill anyone. The first wall had felt like paper. The second wall felt like wall. I smashed through the tiles and stuck there. “Aie!” a cook screamed. I peeled off the wall and fell to the ground, ground-up tiles pattering on my back.

Get up! I told myself. The last fireball had meant to kill and Belroth was coming in through the window. “We’re not finished, fish-girl! Come out here and fight!”

The cooks scattered. I tried to get to my feet as Belroth started to charge. His hands were on fire. He swung a right and I blocked instinctively, slapping away his hooks and jabs. He was frothing at the mouth but his form was good enough to kill me. He punched me in the nose. Crunch.

I stepped back, eyes wide. I touched my nose, which felt crooked. “Son of a bitch, my face!”

Belroth snarled. His arm and chest were bleeding and the wounds glittered. Ouch. He swept his hands over the sauté station and hurled a blast of fire. I activated envish’cri—battle trance! I fought fire with fire magic, taking conscious control of my body’s chemical processes. Oxygen became carbon dioxide then oxygen again. Metabolic wastes were torn apart and assembled back into fuel. My neurochemistry became half as organic but twice as efficient.

Time became a trickle. My vision went black and white and blurry around the edges. The fireball dragged toward me and I ducked. I was moving several times faster than normal—I’d have aches and pains later, provided there was a later.

Belroth roared and threw every knife in the kitchen at once. I slapped one away but the second one slashed my arm. “Agh!” I leaped and ducked, then twisted in the air to avoid the spinning blades. Belroth came at me with flaming fists and I punched him in the ear. He howled and I slammed him into a countertop.

The fire had spread to the other stations. It licked the walls and threatened to burn us both. Didn’t matter to him—he covered himself in flames and rushed to bear-hug me. I picked up a rolling pin and split it over his head. Picked up a pair of frying pans and slammed them together. Whang! Belroth crumpled.

“And stay out of the kitchen!” I brought the frying pans back together and stared. They were useless for frying now. Maybe as Belroth jelly moulds…

My opponent rammed me with his shoulder and threw me at a wall. He’d abandoned external magic and was trying to beat me down. He charged again, but I sidestepped like in dance class.

“I expected better,” I said. “That’s enough. Surrender now!”

That was the wrong thing to say. He lunged and I hit him with an uppercut. It wasn’t a professional punch. It started below the knee and kept the arm straight. It was a looping punch that shouldn’t have been fast or powerful. But speed and strength were mine. That first punch caught him in the gut and stopped his charge. I followed with another shovelling uppercut to the chest. He backpedalled. I slapped him with all my weight he staggered. I called up the Flight glyph and showed him a shoulder tackle. The blast of wind carried us through the restaurant’s window and we tumbled into the street.

Somehow we both got up. Belroth swayed on his feet but he had his hands up. It was clear he was using his last bit of will to stand. I needed a finisher. I knew just the thing. I stepped back, dashed forward. Spun around, arms wide. Dipped. Still turning, I exploded out of the crouch. Leaped. Lashed out with a leg. Became airborne. My back foot followed my front foot and smashed into Belroth’s chin. I landed with my back. Like a tree, he fell.

“Float like a butterfly, kick like a horse,” I heard myself say. I was suddenly dizzy and Czeleborn caught me. I looked at him. “Hey handsome, my mouth is dry. Can you do something about it?”

“Your nose is bleeding.” He produced a handkerchief and dabbed at my lips. I was about to kiss him when the burning mage dropped out of the sky.

“Daddy!” I said. “This isn’t what it looks like.”

My father hovered, completely still, on a roaring flame so hot it melted the street. Onlookers backed away—those that weren’t running. Belroth’s friends tried to disappear but he stopped them with a look. “Don’t think you’re getting away with this. Your masters will hear from me.” He turned to me. “And what is this, daughter, if not a brawl gone wrong?”

Czeleborn eased me out of his arms and bowed. “Sir, I insisted on the duel. I’m responsible.”

“We shall see.” Father dispelled the flames. “Young Czeleborn, isn’t it? How is your father? I see you wear his sword.”

“He told me it would serve me better now that he has retired. My lord governor, I would be glad to make amends for the damage.” Behind him, the restaurant’s roof fell in.

“I’m glad I made firewalls a law,” Father said. “No one else hurt, I see. But what spell did you use to break his jaw?”

“And that’s how I got a taste for martial arts,” I told Mina. “I kept up my apprenticeship a few more years, then went to the Temple of the Gentle Fist to learn to fight.”

“What happened to Belroth?”

“Dropped out. As for Czeleborn, he lives in Lamemheth. Where we’re going.”

The city grew in the distance.

CHAPTER 12: ANGROD

Zith’ra was not a city of marble, although a first-time visitor might mistake it for one. Caprans prefer to work with rammed earth, which is hard as rock and literally cheap as dirt. Mix the local soils, maybe add a few things, and shovel into a wooden frame. Hammer it down (this is hard work) until you have a seamless stone wall. This is rammed earth.

Now and again I’d see a building finished in whitewash or plaster, but most caprans preferred a building’s natural beauty. By varying each layer of earth they achieved muted rainbows, bands of browns and yellows and reds. The walls were at least a foot thick so the interiors were always quiet and cosy.

The carriage took an unexpected turn. I turned to Tamril. “We aren’t going to the royal palace?”

“Of course not, milord. You’ll be hosting the banquet at our country house.”

“The banquet? What banquet?”

“The one in honour of your opponent. For the trial by combat.”

The country house was twelve miles from the capital, near wooded hills that promised much game. It was originally a hunting lodge but its original builder probably wouldn’t recognize it, the place having grown over the centuries. The main hall alone was larger than most ballrooms. Its floor was a single mirror.