13. The Ice Spirit and the Wire Master #2
Nolbrathe went on, her arms extended and floating as if in some sort of dance. “Widran is pleased to offer you one of Kirinoll’s storied fighters, a name you no doubt have heard before, fighting for the first time in the city of Kibo. For your pleasure, I present Imalroc!”
Imalroc emerged, picking his way through the seats and veering to avoid the hands that stretched out to touch him.
He was dressed entirely in white, in stark contrast to the midnight blade in his hand.
Trousers hung loose above his knees but wound tight as a bandage around his waist, and the tunic did very little to hide his skin.
The material was fine and nearly translucent, billowing open in slits around his arms, clinging to the lines of muscle in his chest and stomach and back.
Silver winked in his braid and in a woven band across his brow.
The battleboxer probably hated the whole thing. Even so, Rerdas had to admit he was breathtaking.
Imalroc looked impassively over the audience, as though he stood in the center of an empty room. Rerdas gazed up at him, his heartbeat speeding. He alone kept this untouchable man’s secrets.
“Kneel, fighter.” Nolbrathe did not look over to see if Imalroc followed her command. He sank onto one knee, a position Rerdas knew he could lunge from with explosive force.
“And now, to join our Kirinoll champion, we have selected one of the most popular fighters in Widran’s history. You lucky few will witness his extraordinary skill tonight, but the whole city knows his name. A champion of Kibo, the unparalleled Siglor!”
A door smashed open as though it had been kicked. Rerdas jumped, and Imalroc jerked up and belatedly sank back like a hunting cat coiling low to the ground. His rapt gaze fixed on the doorway where his opponent posed.
Siglor, the Kiboan champion, paraded into the room accompanied by applause.
Rerdas had a difficult time not letting his mouth pop open.
The man’s hair was slicked across his head, butter-yellow, and soaked with scent.
He nearly nudged Nolbrathe out of the center, dramatically whirling a purple cloak off his shoulders and flinging it behind him so that it landed on several squealing onlookers.
This had to be the least intimidating battleboxer Rerdas had ever seen. Fully absurd.
Beneath his cloak, Siglor dressed head-to-toe in shining black leather that hugged him so tightly it might have been painted on.
Even his hands were encased in black leather gloves.
The dark outfit might have posed a problem in the dimly lit room, except that it was festooned with loops of decorative metal rope.
Sparkling and silver, it wound all across his chest, arms, hips, and even down his legs.
A set of daggers in clever horizontal sheaths protected his stomach, and two mystifying but very nasty-looking spurs stuck directly up from his forearms. But he carried no other weapons.
He wouldn’t last against the Draalish sword long enough to take a deep breath.
“My lady,” Siglor said breathlessly, “please allow us to greet our beloved masters.”
Nolbrathe smiled. “Your loyalty does you credit. Greet them.” She continued smiling benevolently as Siglor flung himself before a bony man on a chaise opposite Rerdas.
The battleboxer wormed up beside the seat and planted a loud kiss on the man’s cheek.
Then, without rising, Siglor cocked his head at Imalroc.
Everyone turned as if signaled. Rerdas’s stomach clenched as the weight of the room’s expectant attention fell fully on him.
Shit, he had to pretend this was normal. He couldn’t betray anything as Imalroc rose and glided toward where he sat. No reaction. No gazing at him with a look that screamed to half of Kibo he’d never met anyone stronger, or braver, or more lovely, or more awe-inspiring.
Imalroc bowed to Etiana and then shifted to face Rerdas.
They stared at each other. Rerdas held himself still, praying his expression was as blank as the battleboxer’s.
If Imalroc kissed his cheek, maybe he should pretend to be startled by it.
Or repulsed? He couldn’t pull off repulsed, and Imalroc hated seeing people afraid of him.
The battleboxer dipped his head awkwardly in a hasty bow and walked away, returning to the center of the stage or battlebox or whatever it was.
For a brief, foolish instant, Rerdas was disappointed.
Not that he wanted Imalroc to lean down and kiss him in front of this crowd, at Lady Nolbrathe’s command, with Umber’s breath clammy on the back of neck.
But the thought of Imalroc kissing him in the open, in front of some other crowd in some other place, was warming. He hadn’t realized he wanted it.
“Well.” Rerdas laughed shakily and turned toward his little party. “What an odd tradition.”
Umber propped a hand against his shoulder. “Not one I’m sure I approve of.”
Rerdas twisted to get a proper look at his face. Umber was studying Imalroc as though he’d glimpsed something he’d never seen before.
“The fighters don’t greet their handlers at the start in Kirinoll, Your Grace?” Almes asked.
“Not like that, they don’t,” Umber said distantly.
He had to be talking about Siglor, who had finally stopped squirming on the floor in front of his handler. All the same, Rerdas was glad he had his back to the duke and Umber hadn’t seen his face during Imalroc’s approach.
“I’m afraid this won’t be much of a fight.” Rerdas smiled at Almes. “Imalroc will not play and perform the way this Kiboan does. He’s very quick.”
“I think he can toy with people for quite some time if he likes,” Etiana muttered.
She could not seriously be kicking up dust about Imalroc with Umber right there. Rerdas shot her a look and hoped she felt the sting in it.
Lady Nolbrathe droned on in the center, with Siglor and Imalroc flanking her. She seemed to be detailing an elaborate backstory that cast Imalroc as an evil mountain spirit who meant to bury the world in snow, and Siglor as a gallant assassin sent to kill him.
“Our dark warrior approaches the mountaintop!” Nolbrathe waved her hand across a non-existent vista. “Having cunningly trapped the ice spirit alone, the two prepare for battle. It shall be a great struggle, and none can predict the victor. But what else might pass between them?”
This set off a hungry titter in the audience. Rerdas bristled.
Nolbrathe continued, “It is a fine, fine line between love and hate, and never have two been so well matched. Tonight, you alone shall see. Come closer and behold the dark tale of the ice spirit and the wire master.”
She bowed and scuttled theatrically backwards with a command to the waiting fighters.
Imalroc surged with his sword aloft.
Siglor parried the onslaught with a dirk he hauled from a thigh sheath just in time to avoid having his throat slashed open. He leapt backward, but Imalroc pressed his advantage, bearing down on him with such force Rerdas could feel the striking metal echoing in his jaw.
Siglor was fast. And not quite fast enough. The Draalish sword caught him on the shoulder; leather split, and an angry red swipe oozed amid the black material. The audience groaned as though they too had been cut. They were on the Kiboan’s side.
Spattering droplets of blood and hissing in pain, Siglor scampered directly behind a pillar and wove around it. Imalroc stalked after him. This fight was likely to be over so quickly that the introductions would be the longest part.
They were circling the open floor, maneuvering so that Rerdas got a full look at Imalroc on the hunt, his head lowered and shoulders high.
A heavy arm encircled Rerdas’s ribs and drew him backward. “Gods,” Umber murmured into his ear. “They’re almost too near.” His chin rested on Rerdas’s shoulder.
Imalroc’s gaze flicked from Siglor, still skipping away, to Rerdas on the couch.
His pale eyes were flat and merciless. Rerdas flinched, and Umber felt it.
The duke’s other arm wrapped protectively across his chest. “Don’t worry, love,” Umber cooed.
And then Rerdas watched Imalroc’s gaze shift directly to Umber, and the duke tensed.
“He’s an arrogant shit when he’s got that sword, isn’t he?” Umber muttered.
Rerdas swallowed. Something about this felt far more dangerous than whatever the Kiboan was attempting with his blade.
Siglor sent a tepid strike toward Imalroc’s ear. Imalroc batted it away with the flat of the sword, mouth curling, and then he was looking at Umber again, still with that contempt staining his expression.
That moment of unerring contact landed like a hammer blow to Rerdas’s sternum.
From the corner of his eye, he spotted Etiana glaring at Imalroc, her snarl hidden behind her fan.
He couldn’t properly hear the audience gasping and muttering and occasional cries of encouragement for Siglor, or fully feel the press of Umber’s mouth on the shell of his ear.
Imalroc spun and hurtled at Siglor. Someone screeched. Pitch-black steel cut past Siglor’s defenses again, but Imalroc withdrew the sword, flinging his arm back in a dramatic motion that sent blood sailing down the gutter and right off the tip of the blade.
It sprayed directly across Umber’s face.
“Eternals, fuck!” Umber yelped, hauling Rerdas back with him. The audience erupted, delighted and appalled.
Imalroc stood with his back presented to the Duke of Umber, blood dripping from the Draalish sword, not even glancing around. Siglor fled to the opposite side of the open space, hand pressed to a fresh cut on his thigh.
Rerdas twisted, frantically mopping Umber’s cheek with his sleeve. What was Imalroc thinking? “Your Grace—I’m so—Are you alright?”
Umber smiled, although it was a wretched attempt. “I’m fine. Startled, that’s all.” He coiled his arms around Rerdas, caging him tightly. “Ugh, that was blood.”