10. TEN #3
“Did I make a terrible decision?” Niklaus mumbled at Dex. In spite of the plunging temperature, he was sweating. His heart pounded at twice the speed it ought to, and he couldn’t tell his ailment from his nerves.
“Yes. But he’s got this. He looks bored.”
“He backed out of the fated ring.”
“Because you told him to lose. I don’t think he knows how to let something hit him.”
Niklaus hissed through his teeth. “Nameless!” he screamed, pounding on his chest like he imagined a Chori goliath might. “Nameless!”
Dex cheered too. The mute cast them a look Niklaus interpreted as ‘please stop,’ sparring dowaga set casually on his shoulder.
The match marshal tossed Borodus a second dowaga, and Niklaus’s chest expanded. Another stroke of good luck.
“I thought no one could give him a weapon?” Dex asked.
Niklaus rubbed his tingling hands together. “No one did. He took one. And I’m not sure I can blame them for not wanting to take it back.”
Trokus whistled to initiate the second round.
The mute and Borodus circled one another, each shifting to match the other’s sideways step, their wooden weapons raised. Neither made a move. The crowd began offering taunts and encouragement in equal measure.
Finally, the mute moved in. The dowagas clacked together three times, moving through a series of guards before the mute snared the hooked end of his weapon on Borodus’s blade, flipping it to the side.
The mute closed the gap, angling the bladed tip of his dowaga into Borodus’s side.
Borodus grunted with surprise and jumped backward. Both men’s weapons fell to the side.
“Hit! Nameless!” Trokus announced, raising his arms to a mixture of growls and tame applause from the onlookers.
Fates, that was fast.
When the marshal’s arms lowered again, the contestants leapt back at one another like opposing poles.
After a short flurry of exchanged strikes, the mute took a casual step away from Borodus’ half-finished swipe and lashed out with inhuman speed.
The dowaga tapped Borodus in the chest, lightly as a mother’s kiss.
“Hit! Nameless!” Trokus cried again.
Borodus’s face creased with concern. He kept on the offensive, throwing himself at the mute in a fury of heavy blows. The mute parried with little movement, other than twisting his wrists into a suitable position to block.
Borodus lunged again with an overhead strike.
The mute caught the blow with his dowaga and the wood snapped.
In one clean movement, the mute dipped to the side and swept the broken half of his weapon inward to touch Borodus in the chest. Once more, the hit was so soft Niklaus wasn’t sure whether it had landed until Borodus’s eyes widened in surprise.
The mute snapped back to the arena’s rim, arms at his sides.
“Hit! Nameless! End round. Ninety seconds.”
There was more muttering from the crowd than anything now. Niklaus had bitten his nail down to the finger. He could hardly believe it; he might have a wallet again.
Dex gave him a pointed look and snorted.
Trokus whistled, and the next round began. Borodus released a war cry as he hurled himself towards the mute, guarded only by two broken halves of a wooden dowaga and an aloof expression.
The mute dropped the pieces and, as Borodus released his first swing, leaned forward to catch his opponent’s dowaga along its center hilt. Then, using the momentum of the attack, he dipped his head and flung both man and weapon over his shoulder. Borodus crashed to the sand in a twist of limbs.
The mute spun to kneel over top of him, snatching up one of the wooden halves he had discarded. He held it to Borodus’s throat—a kill move. Borodus’s hand shot into the air.
“End match,” Trokus shouted. It had only lasted six seconds. “Victor, Nameless.”
The crowd erupted, sending a bubbling wave of relief through Niklaus. He was going to live through this campaign. The marshal’s disbelieving eyes darted across the crowd toward him, and Niklaus flashed him his most obnoxious smile before whooping and screaming with the rest of them.
His celebration faltered as he looked over at the mute. Something in his face snaked ice down Niklaus’s spine. He still held out the splintered dowaga. And his expression…Wrong. Something was wrong. He was about to commit murder. He was about to—
The mute lobbed his broken weapon aside. Then he stooped and helped Borodus to his feet, a gentle giant.
Niklaus shivered, but his unease ebbed. It had to be the cold and the withdrawal. He’d imagined things that—
“Alright, Meyernes,” Dex shouted over the din, his expression irritated and astounded all at once. “You’ve won sixteen moons’ worth of Red Wing stipend. What are you going to do with it?”
“Nothing recommended,” Niklaus admitted. “Except I might treat our friend to a spare set of clothing. He smells like he’s been wearing the same pissing tunic since he got here.”
“That’s the first decent thing I’ve heard come out of your mouth.”
“What, that Nameless smells like shrat in the sun?”
Dex crossed his arms. “Don’t ruin it for yourself.”
They both looked to the victor. A number of men had surrounded him, slapping him on the back or otherwise trying to engage him. In stark contrast to the mute’s posture of a lethal beast moments before, his shoulders now cringed toward his ears.
“Should we rescue him?” Dex asked.
“Yes, let’s.”