Chapter 17 #2
My hand finds and grips the still-unfamiliar hilt of the varitar sword Taar gave me.
It is unnerving to see all those tall stern figures astride their tall stern mounts.
Even those on my side of the field are not here for my support.
Kildorath in particular is eager to see my blood spilt on that stretch of hoof-flattened grass and dirt.
Do not fear, Vellara, Diira sings again, her voice a line of fire in my head. I will not let you fall.
I feel the furnace of determination moving through her soul.
She’s thinking of Ashika—of her previous rider, who died.
She feels responsible for that death and refuses even to consider the possibility that she could let another rider down so completely.
I don’t know how she thinks she’s going to fulfill that promise.
But her ferocity is warming. I reach up to stroke her cheek, singing back to her without words.
Her skin cracks in places, revealing the lava-like heat churning just beneath the surface. She is ready for battle.
Taar at my side, Halamar following close behind, I begin the walk toward the battleground.
It feels far longer than it is, an endless gauntlet of slowly-rising dread.
This is far worse than when I approached the boundary of the Unformed Lands.
Then I faced the terror of the unknown, whereas here I know.
Or, at the very least, I’ve got a pretty good idea.
Visions of hacking and blood and broken bones fill my head, and my very soul recoils.
We reach the edge of the field. Across from me, my foe waits, already mounted. She looks bored. Annoyed. As though she can scarcely believe she’s been summoned to perform so menial a task. Gods spare me, she makes Tassa look like a delicate specimen of womanhood!
“Ilsevel,” Taar begins in a low voice.
I don’t wait for him to continue. Whirling on heel, I rise to my toes, grab him by the back of the head, and pull him down into a kiss. To hells with whatever vows he made to Halaema! If my life is forfeit for one stolen embrace, well, I’m about to pay the price already, aren’t I?
Taar’s fingers dig painfully into the bare patch of my arm beneath the leather armor.
It hurts—which is good. I need that pain, need that grounding in this moment.
I draw back from him. His lips chase mine, his breath catching painfully.
I lift my lashes, gaze up into his dark eyes, and see the burning fire of torment leaping there.
“Ilsevel,” he whispers, a rough plea. “Run. I beg of you. Run now.”
But I shake my head. “You entered the arena to fight for my life once. Now I fight for your crown, your people. Though they hate me, I fight for them.” Closing my eyes, I tip my head forward, pressing my brow to his.
“Remember the vows we made? Vel-sa almar. E luralma idor-hath.” I sing the words softly, let their meaning vibrate along the length of the velra cord.
“My life is yours. And, should you require it, my death.”
Before he can speak another word, I back away.
As though on cue Halamar steps forward and grips my husband firmly by the shoulder.
Taar looks at him with such murderous fury, it’s a wonder Halamar doesn’t vaporize on the spot.
But the hearttorn warrior does not release his grip.
He speaks something low in Licornyn tongue, which I do not understand save for one word: “Maelar.”
Queen.
Taar’s expression shifts slightly. He holds onto his fury for a moment, then nods.
Though he relaxes in his captor’s grip, Halamar does not release him.
He looks at me once more, and I see the confusion of all the things he wants to say but cannot find words to articulate.
But the song emanating from his soul expresses more than words ever could, flowing through the velra from his heart to mine.
Summoning all the courage I can muster, I wrench away, turn to Diira.
She kneels for me to mount, and I am painfully aware of all the mocking eyes observing my helplessness as I climb into the saddle.
My licorneir stands. I feel unnatural on her back, bulky and uncomfortable in this tough leather armor, and wonder all over again if I should have refused to wear it.
It’s not as though it will make any difference in the end.
Vellara, Diira sings sternly, I will not let you fall.
I know, I answer, trying to disguise the doubt in my tone.
I know, Diira. I draw a long breath, turning in the saddle to look at that battleground.
You must help me face this foe. You cannot carry me away from here.
Do you understand? It will not serve Taar or his people if I flee.
You must be brave, and you must help me to be brave.
A hot flame of resentment surges through my licorneir’s song. Diira only repeats: I will not let you fall.
I suppose this is all the compliance I can hope for just now.
Resisting the velra’s desperate attempts to pull me back, I guide Diira between the waiting Licornyn riders, passing too close to Kildorath for comfort.
His gaze burns a hole in the side of my head, but I don’t choose to look his way.
Instead I keep my focus fixed ahead on that tall Tarhyn warrior.
Diira picks up her feet, trotting out into the field.
My opponent and Lathaira ride out to join me, meeting in the center.
The chieftain looks down her broken nose at me, her lips curved in a cruel smile.
Then she raises her arm and speaks in a loud voice that all observers may hear.
Her words all Licornyn, but I can guess at the general gist: May the will of the gods be made known.
Decisively. With this human’s blood and guts.
Lathaira and her daughter both turn and ride back toward the opposite end of the field, leaving me alone in the middle. I blink, uncertain what to do. Sylcatha faces about once more, however, and her mother, rejoining the ranks of observers, raises her sword above her head.
It’s starting, I realize. When she lowers that blade—
I don’t have time to finish the thought. Lathaira swings her arm down and, in the same instant, Sylcatha’s licorneir launches forward. I have only just enough awareness to notice that it has not bothered to burst into flame. I’m not worthy of such effort.
Diira, by contrast, immediately erupts in a raging inferno.
She half-rears, snorting sparks from her flared nostrils, then charges forward as well.
Her form is collected, her head tucked, power evenly distributed through her body.
Even in battle frenzy, she does not forget her long years of training and experience.
I grip her tightly with my legs, my varitar blade drawn and at the ready.
The heat of her battle flame is intense.
I wish I could believe it would be some protection against what is coming.
Sylcatha leans in the saddle, her sword arm thrown back.
Is this the first attack Taar tried to describe?
Now I wish I’d let him finish. I ready my own sword in defense but am uncertain how to block such a blow.
At the last possible second, just as our mounts pass each other, Sylcatha swings her weapon, and I realize that I am about to be decapitated, right then and there.
Diira pivots. I have just time enough to hear her warning song in my head and strengthen my grip before she performs a maneuver which no horse could ever hope to achieve.
Her hooves slide, her great body shifts direction, and she glides me smoothly just under the scythe of Sylcatha’s blade.
I hear the whistle of steel passing far too close, and know in my heart of hearts that I should be dead.
Carried on by pure momentum, Diira gallops on to the Tarhyn side of the field. I catch an eyeful of murderous faces before my licorneir rolls back, facing Sylcatha and her mount once more. The other licorneir is still unflamed, though I catch a little flicker of fire running up its shoulders.
I adjust my grip on my blade. I know I don’t have a prayer of surviving this encounter, but at least this time, when we make a pass, I’ll try to get a swing in.
Diira initiates the charge, quicker than a gust of wind.
Fire streams behind her in a comet’s tail, heat licking harmlessly across my skin.
Her song is a wild thing, glorious and terrible.
I let my soul sink into oneness with it.
What a wonder it is, this bond we share!
For a heady moment the miracle of pure being fills me, carries me into a disconnected space outside of time, outside of fear, outside of pain or death or blood.
Then I’m back. Back in the saddle, back in the reality of life-and-death, bearing down on Sylcatha.
She urges her mount into motion just before we meet, and her sword comes down hard.
I manage to get my blade up in defense, while Diira, roaring like a lion, lashes out with her horn, cutting deeply into the flank of the other licorneir.
The beast utters a shriek of furious surprise and finally bursts into flame. The wave of its rage rolls over me, and were it not for Diira’s own protective fire, I feel how completely that rage would incinerate me, right here in the saddle.
Now we’ve done it, I think. Now it will skewer me on its horn as soon as it catches up.
As though responding to this thought, Diira puts on a burst of speed.
No longer collected, she stretches out her neck in racing form, her long legs eating up the turf.
I see Kildorath and the other Licornyn at the edge of the field, driving their mounts together as though to form a barrier.
Their shouts reach my ears even above the roar of Diira’s flame: “Stop! Turn back!”