Chapter Four #4
his hands a blur in the shadows. Their chests collided. Cyrus felt the heat of him, his startled breath at the proximity.
One dagger embedded itself in Maximillian’s sword-bearing arm, prompting a roar of pain as the sword clattered to the ground.
The other nicked at the delicate skin of his throat, a single bead of blood welling in its wake, and Cyrus’s eyes were drawn
to it, transfixed—
For a moment too long, because Maximillian wasn’t nearly as deterred by the blade in his forearm as Cyrus had expected, or perhaps he was just angry enough to work through the pain.
With his other hand, he knocked the dagger away from his throat and out of Cyrus’s grip.
Then he wrenched the knife from his arm and used it to slash at Cyrus—his own weapon!
That was unexpected—but Cyrus was too quick and the weapon too light in Maximillian’s hand, his blow made clumsy by inexperience.
The blade barely glanced across his temple before Cyrus yanked his head back, a thin trickle of blood the champion’s only reward.
For a second they stood still, breathing heavy, only inches between them. Maximillian’s sword lay forgotten on the ground
a pace behind him. One of Cyrus’s daggers had followed suit; the second was still clutched in Maximillian’s too-big hand;
and the third was tucked into Cyrus’s belt. If the villagers were still watching in rapt silence on the other side of the
square, then Cyrus was not aware of them. He knew only his own thumping heart and Maximillian, flushed and vicious and detestable
in his skill, his relentlessness.
Distantly, Cyrus registered the urge to speak. To say something worthy of their confrontation, something cutting and witty
and maddening. Something that would crawl beneath the skin of this champion, beloved of the people, and burrow into the darkest
parts of him. Make him spend his last moments burning in the knowledge that Cyrus was his better in every way.
He opened his mouth, but he didn’t get the chance to summon a witticism, because Maximillian did something most unbecoming
of a noble champion. He dropped the dagger and punched Cyrus, right in the face.
For a handful of sweet, blissful seconds there was nothing but shock. That wasn’t how champions operated. They let their opponents pick up weapons when they fell; they showed mercy when it was not due, so long as innocent lives were not at stake. They did not fight dirty.
Then the pain rushed in, white-hot and blooming, and Cyrus was forced to acknowledge that Maximillian did in fact fight very
dirty indeed.
“What the fuck,” he croaked.
Maximillian drew his fist back again. Cyrus was—not ready, exactly, because he could barely see, and it felt as though his
eyeball was swelling monstrously within its socket, like it would inevitably pop out and roll across the village square just
to traumatise the peasants further. But as he swayed in place, one hot hand cupping his aching face to no relief, Cyrus sensed
Maximillian readying for another blow.
No fucking way.
Using one of Maximillian’s own tricks against him, Cyrus threw his weight into his shoulder and drove it into the champion’s
chest. Maximillian did not have the presence of mind to plant himself in the face of the shove. He reeled backwards again,
only this time Cyrus went with him, momentum carrying him forward until he landed on top of the champion.
Someone groaned. Cyrus wasn’t sure who. He still wasn’t all that aware of much beyond the throbbing ache emanating from his
eye socket. Dimly, he registered relief that his nose seemed to have avoided the brunt of Maximillian’s knuckles. He would
have torched the entire village if Maximillian had ruined his face.
Precious seconds were spent orienting himself, clarity bringing new sensations in its wake.
The hilt of the dagger still secured in his belt, digging into Cyrus’s hip.
The softness of the shirt Maximillian wore, silk, borrowing heat from his skin.
Maximillian smelled of burning embers and fresh sweat and something underneath, a familiar spice.
Cyrus was close enough to see the pulse beating rabbit-fast at his enemy’s throat.
He could feel the hot panting breath against his neck.
Each inhale brought him closer, until not a millimetre remained between their bodies.
Cyrus sucked in a sharp breath of his own, trying to ground himself. Maximillian was solid beneath him and Cyrus tried to
focus on that, on the muscular feel of him. But it just made his head spin more. His senses were full of Maximillian and it
was infuriating, it was wrong-wrong-wrong, Maximillian was his foe, he hated Maximillian, Maximillian needed to die—
A wheeze from below wrenched his thoughts from their frenzied spiral. Anticipating a blow, Cyrus reared his torso up just
enough to plant his hands flat on the dusty earth on either side of the champion. They were still too close. But at least
he could think more clearly like this.
And at least he wasn’t the only one who had been dazed. Maximillian’s stupidly long lashes fluttered as he blinked up at the
dark sky beyond. He must have banged his head when they fell. Good, thought Cyrus viciously, and he resisted the urge to grab Maximillian by the hair and give his head another good bash against
the ground only because his own body was begging for a moment’s respite.
“Bet you wish you hadn’t dropped that dagger now,” he panted.
“Don’t know about that,” Maximillian groaned. Cyrus felt the reverberation of his voice against his chest, disconcerting. “The look on your face was pretty good when I hit you.”
“You fight dirty. Some champion you are.”
Maximillian didn’t answer, just bared his teeth in a grin almost as mad as Cyrus’s own.
Cyrus was going to get up. He was, at any moment. But that grin threw his thoughts out of order again. He stared down at it,
oddly shaken. That wasn’t how champions looked, feral and vicious, a mad dog ready to bite. It was the kind of expression
he saw in his own mirror, not on the fair face of one of the greatest champions the land had ever seen.
Blood from his split temple dripped wetly onto Maximillian’s cheek. It splattered against his tanned skin. Maximillian did
not move to wipe it away.
Because his arms were busy creeping up Cyrus’s sides, ready to lock him in place. He didn’t move to stop it. Didn’t think
to stop it, unforgivably distracted by the smear of red against Maximillian’s cheek, and then it was too late.
Strong arms suddenly squeezed around Cyrus’s rib cage, driving a gasp from him. Maximillian rolled and Cyrus rolled with him,
what little breath he had leaving his body as Maximillian pressed him back into the dirt. The champion was so close again,
heavy, forcing the breath from his lungs. A thought careered across Cyrus’s mind, more stunned than afraid. This was it. This
was how he was going to die, wrapped up in Maximillian.
But then Maximillian sat up, keeping his palms planted on Cyrus’s shoulders and his weight settled squarely atop Cyrus’s hips.
Smoke from the fallen tavern coiled lazily around his head, a murky halo. Maximillian’s mouth twisted with satisfaction. Even
in the night’s shadows, Cyrus could make out that odious dimple.
“Yield,” ordered Maximillian.
There was something surprising in that word that Cyrus should be responding to. Instead, he stared up at Maximillian, his
heart beating very fast in his chest. The champion’s hair was in disarray, pushed back off his flushed face. His pale shirt
was stained with dirt and blood and sweat. His arm still bled sluggishly from the knife wound even as it held Cyrus in place.
He had done that. Taken Maximillian’s perfection and marred it, spoiled it. Scrawled his mark all over him.
“Yield,” Maximillian repeated, annoyed. Cyrus distantly supposed it would be a bit irritating, if you had someone pinned on their
back in public and they were too busy gawping at you to do anything about it.
. . . pinned on his back. In public. Gawping. Yeah, Cyrus needed to do something about this.
His hands were free now that Maximillian wasn’t coiled around him like a snake.
And Maximillian himself was distracted by the prospect of his victory, staring down at Cyrus’s face and breathing hard.
He wasn’t watching the twitch of Cyrus’s fingers towards the final dagger still tucked into his belt.
He grasped the hilt, felt the smooth cherry wood against his fingertips.
His eyes remained fixed on the champion’s face but his mind had finally pinned down the source of surprise.
Yield was a chance for survival, not a precursor to a killing blow. Why would Maximillian let him live?
For a heartbeat, disappointment flashed through Cyrus. He would never know the answer. But there was no time to indulge a
spark of fascination. His chance was here, and he had to take it.
Cyrus swung upwards with the dagger with all his might, aiming for Maximillian’s throat. He missed only because Maximillian
lurched away with the reflexes of a seasoned champion, toppling backwards and hissing in pain as the blade nipped at his clavicle.
Cyrus surged to his knees and seized the advantage, looming over the champion. Fearful cries rose from the villagers as Maximillian
struggled to right himself and Cyrus reared his arm back for the final blow, grinning ferociously.
Footsteps. Heavy on the earth behind him. Rushed and panicked and heading his way.
Before he could strike Maximillian, something struck him. Something hard and hefty, wielded clumsily by an inexperienced hand. It slammed into the side of Cyrus’s head with vicious
force and sent him reeling sideways.