13. The Ice Spirit and the Wire Master #4
Imalroc bounced twice on his toes and bounded across the gap.
The wire master met his attack, ducking and bobbing with speed to match Imalroc’s.
But it was a swordsman’s dance, and Rerdas had never seen a finer swordsman than his ice spirit battleboxer.
Imalroc flew inside his guard like wind-borne fire.
A frenzy of blows, and Rerdas jerked in tiny mimicry of Imalroc’s motion. Blood poured from another gash opened on Siglor’s arm. Imalroc vaulted over the swing of razor-saw. He flicked his blade along his enemy’s ribs and caught him hard in the chest with the flat of the sword.
A thorny jumble of razor-saw crunched around Imalroc’s leg. Siglor bolted for safety behind the nearest pillar, and Rerdas could breathe because the blood-soaked tip of the Draalish sword was at his heels. Imalroc lunged after him, heedless of the mess of razor-saw flopping around his ankle.
Siglor whirled around the pillar like it were some kind of game. But his face was white, and he looked as if he’d be screaming if he had any breath left for it. Rerdas felt no pity for him. He’d wounded Imalroc too many times, and he’d pay for it. There was no one who could best Imalroc.
Inexplicably, Siglor flung himself onto the splattered floor, skating across it through blood and sweat. Rerdas could hardly believe he was seeing such a stupid, ill-thought tactic. Until a braid of razor-saw caught on the edge of the forearm spur and went taut.
It wrenched Imalroc back by his ankle. He was yanked toward the pillar where Siglor had twice wrapped the line of saw, dragged as if an invisible hand had snatched him.
His foot twisted against the immovable pillar, and Imalroc let out a strangled sound.
The Draalish sword clattered uselessly against the floor.
Siglor rolled and struggled up, clutching his badly injured leg. He twisted to keep tension in the wire, jerking Imalroc’s ankle off the ground with it.
He had Imalroc balanced precariously on one foot, one leg straining out behind him, and a vicious, unending snarl spilling from his lips. The crowd jeered, but Rerdas shivered. Once Imalroc hacked through that wire against the pillar, he would be a wolf free of the trap.
Siglor spun his arm, whipping a new razor-saw so that it sliced the air quickly enough to produce an insistent whine.
He underestimated Imalroc’s capacity to handle pain. And his balance. Even on one foot, even if it put weight on the binding saw, Imalroc took the opening Siglor handed to him. The Draalish sword was unstoppable.
The Kiboan let out a gurgling cry as the blade gouged his collarbone and clawed down his chest. That was nearly a fatal blow, and surely Siglor would crawl off, bleeding badly, and—
The supple weapon in Siglor’s hand spun with residual momentum. Face racked with pain, Siglor whipped it into a tight helix around Imalroc’s sword arm.
“No,” hissed Etiana, and Rerdas almost rounded on her. Hadn’t she seen Imalroc win often enough to believe in him? Navona had been worse than this.
Imalroc dropped his sword and towed Siglor close. He crashed to the ground, taking Siglor with him.
Siglor rolled, grabbing one of his own wires with gloved hands and hauling. Like a puppet on a string, Imalroc’s arm went with it.
Imalroc howled, and Rerdas saw his arm clear the socket beneath the shredded, useless sleeves, bone bulging wildly beneath his skin. Rerdas had both hands locked over his own mouth to keep from crying out in answer.
Get up. He had to get up.
There was no flag at his feet. Rerdas didn’t know how to surrender the fight. He hadn’t even thought to ask Nolbrathe how he could.
A loop of razor-saw glittered, and Imalroc brought his free hand to his throat just in time to stop the barbed noose that threatened to crush his larynx.
The razor-saw sank deep into his palm, and he was right there, screaming, and Rerdas couldn’t move.
The audience pounded the floor with open hands, insatiable.
He would get up. Imalroc could; he was unstoppable, unbreakable.
Rerdas tried to stumble to his numb feet, but Umber had his arms locked around his waist.
Siglor’s chest heaved, blood puddling beneath his legs. He reached for one of his daggers.
Imalroc heard it, twisted, and Rerdas saw his face. Pure, blind panic. He needed someone to help him.
Rerdas tried to pry Umber’s hand off him in the same moment that Imalroc released the loop of razor-saw at his throat. His bloodied hand flew back and seized Siglor’s forearm.
Imalroc hauled his enemy forward, rearing up. Siglor slammed into the back of his head. Once, twice, and Siglor flopped in a daze of slack wire.
Imalroc contorted, still holding Siglor’s wrist, fighting to breathe, heaving Siglor’s twitching body.
Imalroc jerked his bound foot away from the pillar to extend the wire and screamed again.
Rerdas couldn’t hear him over the tumult of the audience, most of them up from their chairs, but he saw what ripped through Imalroc with the wire pulled gleaming tight. Anguish and terror.
Imalroc was still screaming when he smashed Siglor’s throat down onto the unforgiving wire and drowned the fight in blood.