Magic Strikes (38 page)

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I AWOKE EARLY. TOO EARLY—THE CLOCK ON THE wall said three thirty. I lay with my eyes open for a few minutes and finally rose, swiped Slayer, and snuck out of the bedroom to the outer door.

Derek perched on a chair by the doorway. He looked at me with yellow eyes.

“Where are the Guards?” I murmured.

He shrugged. “Must be a shift change. They sat by the door for the last six hours and then got up and left.”

“How long have they been gone?”

“Three minutes.”

Could be a shift change. I doubted the Reapers would try anything funny.

The curse of the Wolf Diamond guaranteed they would try to win it. Mart’s goal was the gem, since he had to have it to attack the Pack. The rakshasas didn’t seem to like even odds. They preferred to have an advantage, and without the Wolf Diamond, the shapeshifters would wipe the floor with them.

I felt reasonably confident about tomorrow’s fights. True, Mart’s speed was ungodly and their magic was nothing to spit at, but our team was well-balanced and the shapeshifters fought like an oiled machine.

Even when the Reapers entered the Pit as a team, they broke the fights into individual duels.

“I’ll be back,” I said.

“Where are you going?”

I told him the truth. “I want to see the Pit.”

He nodded.

I snuck through the hallway and headed to the Pit. I just wanted to run my hand through the sand and settle my memories, then I would be able to sleep. The fastest way to the sand lay through the gym. I just had to cross it and I’d come out next to the Gold Gate.

I ducked inside and jogged barefoot across the floor. Another moment and I was out of the gates into the Pit. The covers hiding enormous skylights in the roof had been removed in preparation for the championship fight. Moonlight sifted on the sand.

By the Pit, bathed in the gauze shroud of moonrays, Hugh d’Ambray, flanked by Nick and the young fighter, handed a wrapped item to Mart and Cesare.

Ice rolled down my spine. I stopped. The item was long and looked like a sword wrapped in canvas. So that was where the Guards went. He bought them off to make the exchange.

Hugh was no fool. He had seen the fights and he realized we had a decent chance of winning tomorrow.

He had decided to even the odds. That would be no ordinary sword.

Cesare’s upper lip wrinkled in a grimace. Mart flashed his teeth at me and the two Reapers melted into the darkness. Hugh d’Ambray looked at me and I looked back at him.

“It’s not surprising that Roland would ally with the rakshasas. They’re an ancient race, dependent on magic. They respect his power,” I said. “It’s not surprising he would use them to weaken the Pack.

They’re vicious and sly but not too bright. If they win, they’ll make a much weaker enemy than the shapeshifters. If they lose, the Pack will be bloodied anyway. However, having Hugh d’Ambray pay off the Guards and slink about in the night like a thief to provide the rakshasas with a weapon just before the final fight, that I find surprising. That feels almost like cheating. How very unsavory.”

He strode to me with a short nod. “Walk with me.”

I had to find out what he gave them. Our survival depended on it. I walked next to him. Nick and the other fighter fell behind a few steps. We began making a circle around the fence.

“I like the way you move. Where have we met before?”

“Just out of curiosity, what did you give them?”

“A sword,” he said.

Duh. “It would have to be something very valuable. They view weapons as toys. They melted all of your precious electrum so they could pour it onto the face of one shapeshifter.”

The corners of Hugh’s mouth twitched. He caught the expression and froze it before it could bloom into a grimace, but I saw it. Score one for me.

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“So this sword must be very special. Something they probably shouldn’t be trusted with, something that would tip the odds in their favor tomorrow. Is it one of Roland’s personal weapons?”

“I liked what you did with the golem,” he said. “Fast, precise, economical. Good technique.”

“Was it Scourge you gave them?”

The sword he’d given them had a wide blade. It could’ve been Scourge, although I really hoped it wasn’t. Scourge unleashed the kind of magic that decimated armies. No, it had to be something else. A sword that could be used short range with some precision.

“If you hadn’t allied with the wrong side, I could’ve used you,” he said.

“Thank you for not insulting me with an offer.”

“You’re welcome. I do regret that you’ll die tomorrow.”

“And that fact matters to you why?”

He shrugged. “It’s a waste of talent.”

Here he stood, my father’s replacement. Voron had trained him, as he had trained me, although he didn’t get Hugh from birth. Hugh was ten when he started. He was a master swordsman. My father told me he had never seen a more talented fighter. I supposed the acknowledgment of my skill by him was a compliment.

“Why do you serve him?” I asked.

A faint veneer of puzzlement overlaid his features.

I really wanted to know. Voron took him in. Voron made him who he was. Roland’s magic only kept him young—he had the body and face of a man barely older than me, but he had to be close to fifty. He wouldn’t age. None of Roland’s top cadre felt time. It was his gift to those who served him. But surely, that alone wasn’t enough.

“He’s stronger than me. I haven’t found anyone else who could best me.” Hugh studied me. “How often do you take orders from those who are weaker, dumber, and more inept than you?”

My pride stung. “I do so because I choose to.”

“Why not choose to serve a stronger master?”

“Because his vision is warped and I don’t believe in it.”

“His vision is that of a better world.”

“A better world bought with atrocities will be rotten at the core.”

“Perhaps,” Hugh said.

I looked into his eyes. “There won’t be a tower above Atlanta as long as I live.”

“How fortunate for our cause that your life will end tomorrow.” Hugh smiled. He thought me ridiculous and so he should.

“Would you spar with me?” he asked. “We have time. I was generous with the Guards.”

The offer tempted me. Hugh was an innate swordsman, a one-in-a-million fighter. Sparring with him would be as close as I could ever come to sparring with Voron once again. But I had a bout to fight.

Injuring me would play into his hands rather nicely. “I don’t have time to give you a lesson.” Chew on that.

I walked away.

“I wonder how fast you are,” he said to my back.

The blond swordsman struck at me from behind. I dropped under the blur that was his lunge and thrust low, driving Slayer into the gut, from the side up. The saber punctured the stomach with a loud pop and slid deep, all the way into the pressurized aorta. It took all of my skill to execute the thrust. Hugh had gotten my goat after all.

I pushed the blond off my sword. Slayer’s blade emerged, coated in scarlet. He sagged to the floor.

Inside him, the blood geysered out of the aorta. A normal human would be dead already. But the blond too had the benefit of Roland’s magic. It would take him a minute or two to die.

I looked at Hugh. His face betrayed nothing, but his eyes widened. I knew exactly what was going through his head. It was the same thing that went through my mind when I saw a feat of expert bladework: could I have done that?

Our eyes met. The same thought zinged between us, like an electric charge: one day we would have to
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meet sword to sword. But it wouldn’t be today, because tomorrow I had to fight the Reapers. I had to break it off.

“You threw him away. Sloppy, Hugh.”

He took a step back. Too late I realized I’d used Voron’s favorite rebuke. It had just rolled off my tongue. Shit.

I left. They didn’t follow me.

IN THE MORNING THE SHAPESHIFTERS MEDITATED. Then we practiced in the gym. Jim had given us a short briefing. “The Reapers fight like samurai: one on one. There are no tactics involved. It just breaks down into individual fights. They like flash, but they are efficient.”

We all had a job to do. Mine was simple: Mart. I didn’t want Mart. I wanted Cesare. But Jim’s strategy made sense and I was going to follow it. I’d get a chance against Cesare. I wanted to kill him entirely too much to be denied.

But none of the tactics, none of the strategy, mattered until I knew what sort of blade Hugh had given to the Reapers. He had had ample opportunity to transfer the blade to the rakshasas before last night. He knew they wouldn’t be able to resist using the sword, and he didn’t want its power known until today.

Roland had made several weapons. All were devastating. Just thinking on it made me grit my teeth. He must’ve given Hugh the order to assure the rakshasas win at any cost. I wondered if it grated on Hugh.

At two minutes till noon we lined up and marched into the Pit. Sunshine poured on us through the skylights. The shapeshifters came out in warrior form, Raphael included, with Curran in the lead. Andrea carried a crossbow and enough firearms to take on a small country. Not satisfied with her own carrying capacity, she had loaded Dali with spare ammo.

We crossed the floor of the Arena and stepped onto the sand.

Across from us seven Reapers stood in two rows. My gaze skipped over them and fastened on Mart in the center. His sword was sheathed. Damn it.
What is it? What did he give you?

I surveyed the rest. Cesare on Mart’s left. The huge rakshasa, still wearing his human skin, carried two khandas: heavy, three-foot-long double-edged swords. I’d handled khandas before; not my cup of tea: too heavy and oddly sharpened.

On Mart’s right stood the rakshasa’s Stone. Ten feet tall and thick, he had the head of a small elephant, complete with wide fans of ears, but instead of a dark hide, his body had the sickly yellow tint of a man stricken with jaundice. A chain mail hauberk of yellow metal suspiciously resembling gold hung from his shoulders. I guessed even elephants liked to go into battle color-coordinated.

On the elephant’s shoulder perched a slender creature: hairless, dark red like raw liver, its bony limbs tipped with black claws. It resembled a lemur the size of a short human. Two vast wings spread from its shoulders. His arms held two brutal talwars: short, wide swords.

The second line of Reapers consisted of three fighters. The first was the woman who’d delivered the hair to me. The second was a humanoid thing with four arms, clothed in a reptilian skin of mottled green and brown. The third was Livie.

The reptilian thing was abnormally slender, green, and armed with two bows. Livie had a straight sword and looked scared to death. Her head had been shaved bald. It brought my rage back with crystal clarity. Sure, what she did was stupid and weak. But she was no fighter. They had no right to bring her into this. She didn’t deserve it.

Livie met my gaze. Her eyes brimmed with tears.

They had hunted us like meat. They’d hurt Derek. They’d broken his bones, poured molten electrum on his face, tortured him, and laughed. They killed shapeshifters and forced young girls into the Pit. Their existence was an injustice. They deserved to die. And I would enjoy this.
Dear God, I will enjoy this.

The magic was in full swing. The crowd waited, electric with anticipation. A smile blazed across Mart’s face. His blade was still sheathed.

Curran shifted his clawed feet in the sand next to me.

Above us on the balcony, Sophia, the producer, held up an enormous yellow stone. Luminescent, lemon
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yellow, shaped like a tear, it shone and played in her hands like a living current of gold, capturing the light and tossing it back in a dazzling display of fire.

Sophia raised it above her head—her arms quaked with strain—and shouted. “Let the Games begin!”

The rakshasas’ mage weaved her arms through the air.

I swung my two swords, Slayer in my right hand and the tactical blade in my left.

Mart reached for his sheath, clamped it, and slid the blade free, tossing the sheath onto the sand.

A wide blade stared at me, red like the finest ruby.

Everything slowed to a crawl, and in the ensuing stillness, my heartbeat boomed through me, impossibly loud. The Scarlet Star. One of Roland’s hellish personal weapons, a sword he had forged over five years out of his own blood. It had the power to fire thirteen bursts of magic. Like enchanted saw blades, they would lock onto their targets, slice through anything in their path, and cleave their objective in half. They couldn’t be dodged. They couldn’t be blocked. The blade itself couldn’t be broken by an ordinary weapon. Even Curran couldn’t snap it.

We would die instantly. Curran might survive long enough to be torn apart by the rakshasas.

I couldn’t let him die.

I whipped about, slow as if underwater, and saw him looking back at me with gray eyes from a monster’s face.

What do I do? How can I keep him alive?

It will be okay,
Curran mouthed, but I couldn’t hear him, all sound blocked by my panic.

I turned back. Mart gripped the sword with both hands. The red blade glistened, as if wet with blood. I had to destroy it, because if he completed a strike, all of us would die.

Blood. It was forged out of Roland’s blood, the same blood that now coursed through my veins. There might be a way to destroy the blade after all. If I could take possession of the sword.

The gong boomed. The world leapt back to its normal speed.

I charged.

Mart began to raise the sword for an overhead strike.

I had never run so fast in my life. The sand blurred. The blade point loomed before me, rising. I grasped the crimson blade and shoved it into my stomach.

It hurt. My blood drenched the red substance of the sword. Mart stared at me, stunned. I grasped Mart’s hand and pushed the sword deeper into me. The point broke through my back. Deeper. All the way to the hilt.