Chapter Eight #3
The last time Cyrus saw him had been that night at his lair. He had intended to close the door as soon as Maximillian stepped
outside, their deal made. But something had made him linger, a curiosity he could not deny about this champion with less-than-noble
plans. He’d watched as Maximillian paused in the doorway, framed by the night sky and slanting moonlight. He looked like he
was fighting with himself over something. Cyrus had wondered what was going on in his head. Whether he hated himself for working
with his enemy.
But with Maximillian here in front of him again, flesh and blood, it was easy to forget that they were working together at
all. All the apprehension building up to this moment had given way to the adrenaline of confrontation and the desire to put
on a show.
Thankfully, Cyrus was good at that.
“It’s me you want.” Maximillian’s voice rang out, strong and true. “Leave these people alone.”
Cyrus delivered his best sneer, turning his face to give the crowd a good view. His eyes swept across their faces, gratified
by the alarm he saw there and even more gratified by the whispers on the breeze. Earthshaker. He is Earthshaker.
It made his blood burn hot. Yes, let them keep saying his name. Let them whisper it in fear and revelation. Let the taste
of it sour upon their worthless tongues.
He looked back at Maximillian. The sneer had faded, leaving a small smile in its wake that Cyrus knew full well was worse than any fearsome expression he could produce.
“Why should I?” Cyrus kept his tone light, almost teasing. He liked the way it made Maximillian frown. “They come to cheer
for their champion . . . surely they would like the opportunity to defend him too?”
Maximillian’s expression shifted, wary. That night in his lair, they had decided against planning out this altercation in
too much detail. They both knew the broad strokes and what they wanted to get out of it; a set script might sound forced,
and they each already knew how the other fought. Better to test it out spontaneously. Was Maximillian regretting that now?
Did he fear that he had made a mistake, that he had no real idea of how far Cyrus might take this?
It was fun, toying with him. Cyrus took in the new tension around Maximillian’s eyes, the way his hand had tightened on the sword. He
held Maximillian’s gaze for a moment longer than was necessary, his smile widening. Easy. We’re only playing.
And giving Maximillian an opportunity to strike. Cyrus was keen to get on with the action. He turned to face the crowd, raising
his voice so that the last cowering peasant could hear him. “What do you say? Would you like the chance to fight me? To die
for your champion?”
Scraping steel as Maximillian drew his sword.
Cyrus whipped around just in time to see Maximillian leap for him.
It was well done—the slash was close enough to make it appear that he had been trying to slice Cyrus’s head clean from his body, and yet with a sidestep Cyrus evaded him without a scratch.
Behind Maximillian, the governor squawked and dived into the safety of his guards, leaving the youngsters to scramble to find safety of their own.
Cyrus rolled back onto his heels, grinning, as Maximillian righted himself and turned to face him. A fierce hero, attacking
a quick-footed villain in defence of innocents. Exactly as they sought to portray. He imagined Balthazar scratching away at
an analysis from his vantage point. 10/10, no notes.
Cyrus clucked his tongue. “Now, now. If you’re going to be like that—”
“Leave the people alone,” snarled Maximillian, “or I will cut your head from your worthless body.”
The delivery couldn’t be faulted, the vicious edge almost enough to make Cyrus believe he meant it. But a thought popped suddenly
into Cyrus’s head; an unspoken response to Maximillian’s words. Oh, but I’m worth quite a lot to you, aren’t I? Your little secret. Cyrus imagined how he would say it, almost a murmur, as he stepped into Maximillian’s space. Maybe he would even trace the
shape of that snarl, just to rile him more. How Maximillian would bristle.
Why was he imagining that? Cyrus frowned, giving his head a minute shake to dispel the thought from his mind. A flicker of
anger replaced it, as though Maximillian had deliberately planted that image to distract him.
Enough time-wasting. He wanted to fight.
Cyrus bared his teeth in the unfriendliest grin he could summon. “So do it, champion,” he said coldly, no trace of playfulness left in his tone. “Come and get me.” He tossed a careless glance over one shoulder at their wide-eyed audience. “Before I get them.”
A split second of silence in the wake of his threat—and then Maximillian was on him. Cyrus was prepared, or at least as prepared
as he could be, because prior experience or not, Maximillian was formidable. A flick of his thumbs had Cyrus’s daggers sliding
free, and then he was meeting Maximillian’s attack head-on, metal clanging against metal, almost drowning out the gasps from
the crowd.
Maximillian drove him back across the stage. Cyrus allowed it, biding his time and waiting for an opening. He got a slash
in on Maximillian’s arm. The champion swore, ducking the other dagger as it sliced towards him. He punched Cyrus sharply in
the shoulder, sending him reeling backwards. There he went again, fighting dirty.
Their dance continued with Cyrus on the attack this time. Someone in the crowd screamed as a shove sent Maximillian crashing
down to the floor, Cyrus on him in an instant—and if this had been a real fight, he probably would have had enough time to
get his dagger up against the delicate skin of Maximillian’s throat.
It crossed his mind, ever so briefly, that he could still do that if he wanted.
He could slice with the sharp edge of the blade rather than the flat for show.
He could drench his hands in Maximillian’s lifeblood, kill him publicly here and now, secure his reputation once and for all.
He could leave this place awash with tears and sorrow and grief, his name on everyone’s lips.
He could leave Balthazar to weep over Maximillian’s corpse and wail about how they never should have got involved with a wrongdoer in the first place.
His thoughts must have been slightly too visible on his face, because Maximillian suddenly scowled at him. The expression
looked out of place on the face of the man pinned below him, bordering on petulant.
“Don’t be a dick,” rasped Maximillian.
The words were unexpected, pushing back against the irrational anger that had swamped Cyrus. It left him in a rush, replaced
by sudden awareness of the ridiculousness of their situation. He found himself biting back a startled snicker of laughter—only
it wasn’t laughter that burst out of him, but an undignified yelp as the pommel of Maximillian’s sword bashed into the back
of his head.
“Ow! Fuck!”
Cyrus rolled, one hand clutching at his crown as a litany of curses fell from his mouth. One of the governor’s guards made
an abrupt movement as Cyrus rolled closer and climbed shakily to his knees, blinking back the stars that had begun to swirl
in front of his eyes. Another weapon was raised towards him, an overexcited face beyond as a young guardsman saw his opportunity.
A familiar blade met the sword before it could fall on Cyrus’s neck, the clash enough to shake the stars from Cyrus’s eyes.
He looked up sharply.
Maximillian had met the attack with a parry, his face contorted in a snarl—aimed at the now-cowering guardsman, not at Cyrus himself.
Just for a second, Cyrus saw him as he must appear to all those watching: the vengeful champion set on his quarry, enraged by the thought of anyone else cutting into his glory.
His teeth were bared, almost animalistic with it, fury radiating from his burning eyes.
“He’s mine,” hissed Maximillian.
Cyrus allowed himself a moment, just a moment, to stare at Maximillian’s terrible snarl. To take in every detail of it—the
ferocity and the rage, the savage curl of his lip.
But he could not allow himself to be distracted. Whilst Maximillian glowered at the guardsman, Cyrus lunged to his feet, knocking
the sword clean out of Maximillian’s hand and sending them both crashing to the ground.
Over and over they rolled, each trying to stay on top. One moment Cyrus had Maximillian pinned, knees digging into his muscled
abdomen; the next he’d been flipped onto his back hard enough to knock the breath from his body. He drove an elbow into Maximillian’s
side, vicious, savouring the stunned gasp. With Maximillian so close he felt that gasp against his cheek, the huff of warm
air over his own lips. He could almost taste it, Maximillian’s breath and sweat becoming one with his own.
Maximillian groaned. He was still winded. Cyrus forced his advantage by clambering on top, getting his knees around the champion.
Maximillian resisted immediately, trying to throw him off. Cyrus could feel the strength of him as he bucked and squirmed
beneath him, straining against his hold. He would not be moved, his thighs squeezing tighter. Maximillian made a little choked
sound, wide eyes flashing up to Cyrus’s face. Cyrus stared down at him, breathing hard. To all those watching, it was the
cold look of a villain surveying his prey. Between them, his eyes held another meaning.
Ready?
This was the only part of their interaction that they had discussed, a little plan for how their performance needed to end.
Cyrus demanded the opportunity to show that he was indeed capable of besting Maximillian, to undo some of the damage from
that false report in the news. Maximillian was giving him this; he would yield, in a fashion, even if the fight wouldn’t truly
end there.
Maximillian’s chest heaved under him. A bead of sweat journeyed to nestle in his clavicle, drawing Cyrus’s focus. Then Maximillian
gave the tiniest jerk of his head. It looked like nothing, but Cyrus knew it was agreement.