Chapter 36
Blaze
The fighting pit is built from stone and lined with flaming torches.
A few rusted spearheads lie littered across the sawdust-strewn ground, which unnervingly appears stained with dried blood from previous brawls.
At opposite ends are two steel portcullises.
My eyes dart between them, my insides twisting themselves in knots.
I stand at the edge of a wooden platform raised several feet above the pit, wrists bound in front of me with a length of rope.
I can feel the Eye of the Past tucked safely inside my pocket, while Silverclaw is stuffed down the side of my boot.
Behind me is the Baron’s brutish henchman, Garrick.
In the centre of the pedestal, lounging on a plush gold-silk divan, is the Baron himself, his left eye freakishly enlarged by his monocle, which he keeps polishing impatiently on his cravat, eager for the fight to begin.
Perched on a stool beside him is his wife – a silent, waifish girl who looks no older than me.
The crisp night air is filled with excited chatter as the crowd of spectators continues to grow in both size and exuberance. A host of loud, insistent voices rises above the din as a queue of punters clamour to place their bets.
A bear – that’s what the Baron said Fox would be fighting.
Cold dread sits heavy in my stomach. There’s no denying that Fox is a skilled fighter.
Strong, quick and handy with a weapon. But bears have size on their side.
I read somewhere that they have the strength of five men, not to mention claws designed to rip their prey from limb to limb.
Can Fox really hope to defeat such a creature without magic?
And what’s more, would he even want to? He doesn’t believe in killing animals – he said it himself only last night.
But would he really sacrifice his life, his future, his quest for revenge, just to uphold his principles?
It’s certainly possible, I suppose. After all, the only reason we’re in this mess in the first place is because he insisted on saving that wolf.
I think of Fox’s peculiar affinity with animals, as mesmerizing as it is bewildering. What if he could use that gift now? Forge whatever kind of strange connection that might allow him to convince the bear not to attack?
I take several deep breaths, trying to remain calm. But this proves rather difficult, given the knife currently pressed to my throat.
‘What’s the matter, sweetness?’ Garrick murmurs in my ear, his breath hot and sour. ‘Worried your boy doesn’t have what it takes?’
‘No,’ I say, with far more confidence than I feel. ‘In fact, quite the opposite. If I were the Baron, I’d be worried for my bear.’
Garrick sneers. He pulls a deerskin hipflask from his pocket and takes a swig, and I comfort myself by imagining turning the liquor in his bloodstream to ice.
A sudden hush falls over the crowd. I turn my head a fraction to see the Baron on his feet, his hand raised for silence.
‘As some of you may know, this morning my hunters returned with a highly coveted new contender for my fighting pit.’
There are several gasps among the spectators.
‘However, no sooner had it arrived than my wolf was stolen from me, set free by a young man intent on spoiling our fun.’
The gasps are replaced with booing.
‘Bring out the boy,’ orders the Baron.
There’s a loud scrape and screech of metal as the first portcullis is raised, the steel grate rising slowly to reveal Fox.
My heart flips at the sight of him, then sinks as I take in the raw skin round his neck that suggests he’s been shackled like some wild animal.
His gaze latches on to me instantly, travelling from my face to my bound wrists to the knife at my throat.
He is armed with a simple longsword. I’d wager the blacksmith will never want for business so long as the Baron lords over Wellwall.
He peers down at Fox through his monocle, his mouth twisted in a gleeful smile. ‘Being a generous man, I offered this thief three options. Lose his hand …’
There’s the sound of jeering.
‘Lose his girl …’
Fox clenches his bruised jaw as the Baron points a stubby finger at me.
‘Or –’ the Baron pauses, presumably for effect – ‘to give us a show twice as good as the one he sought to sabotage.’
The crowd cheer, and I think about how innate it is – this insatiable appetite for violence. How bloodshed becomes a spectacle. Punishment by way of entertainment.
‘Tonight, he will fight my reigning champion, as yet undefeated. Ladies and gentlemen, behold the Bear!’
I watch with bated breath as the second portcullis is raised.
Yet it’s not an animal that lumbers out into the pit, but a man – the most enormous man I have ever seen, so mountainous I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he were descended from giants.
His beard is thick, his head shaven and scarred and oddly disproportionate to his vast frame, which is bedecked in fighting leathers, the material severed at the shoulders to reveal biceps the width of my body.
‘That’s the Bear?’ I say weakly.
Garrick chuckles. ‘Fitting, don’t you think? Given that he’s killed so many of them. Loverboy doesn’t stand a chance.’
Fox’s face remains impassive, but I watch him grip his sword a little tighter as the Bear advances, brandishing a wicked-looking mace in one hand and waving to the crowd with the other. To my horror, I see that he’s wearing a pair of spiked brass knuckles.
‘Every tooth is from a different kill,’ Garrick crows. ‘He rips them from the jaws of the beasts as a momento.’
Sure enough, as I look closer, I realize that they’re not spikes protruding from each knuckle – they’re teeth. Bear teeth.
Nausea writhes in my stomach.
The Baron calls for silence once more. ‘The rules are simple,’ he says. ‘The fight is hand-to-hand combat, and it’s to the death.’
My heart is a fist, punching me repeatedly in the chest.
‘If the boy wins, he and the girl go free. And if he loses … Well, he’ll be dead.’
The crowd roar. It’s like being back at the third trial, when I snuck out of my tent to watch Fox fight Amaryllis.
Except this time the spectators are rooting against him, and he’s not competing against a fellow Terrathian Heir but an eight-foot-tall bear-killer with a mace.
Garrick is right. Fox doesn’t stand a chance – not if he’s going to fight like a Fidra.
I think about what he whispered before the Baron’s guards dragged him away.
Whatever happens, promise me you won’t reveal yourself.
But how can he expect me to keep that promise after seeing his opponent? Is concealing our identities really more important than saving his life?
I have to do something. I have to act now, before Fox is beaten to a bloody pulp.
The coldness is already there, frost and fury crystallizing at my core.
Slowly I allow it to spread as my eyes scan the crowd.
I could freeze them where they stand. I could skewer the Baron with icicles, engulf the Bear inside a monstrous wave, drown Garrick in his own liquor-steeped blood. I could get us out of here.
But then, just as he did before, Fox stares straight at me and shakes his head.
A split second later the Baron claps his hands. ‘Fight!’
Fox turns to face his opponent and bows – customary before a duel. The Bear grins at him. They begin to circle one another, Fox testing his sword by swinging it through the air in a series of twirling arcs.
Please, I think helplessly. Please don’t die. I can’t watch you die.
The Bear takes the first swipe. I suck in a breath but Fox dodges the mace with ease, his reflexes as sharp as a knife. This goes on for some time, the Bear lunging and Fox darting out of the way. The crowd grow impatient, stomping their feet and chanting.
Fight.
Garrick sniggers into my ear. Next to us, the Baron is pouting, his patience already waning. They don’t know that this is how Fox operates on the battlefield, getting the measure of somebody while revealing nothing about himself.
I watch him analyse the Bear’s movements and footwork.
Fight.
Another swing of the mace, another evasion. The Bear snarls.
Fight.
The Bear swipes left; Fox darts right. The Bear swipes right; Fox darts left.
The Bear lifts the mace above his head and brings it down hard, but Fox has already rolled between his legs and slashed the back of his knees.
The brute roars in pain as blood streams down his calves.
Fox smiles, having reached his conclusion – and I think I know what it is.
Strength and size are one thing, but speed is quite another. The Bear is bigger, but Fox is faster.
A spark of hope ignites in my chest.
Fox keeps his tread light, making every step count. He’s conserving his energy while slowly depleting his opponent’s. Those who placed bets are beginning to look uneasy.
I let out a shaky huff of laughter as Fox uses his sword to trip the Bear, sending him sprawling into the sawdust.
Garrick grips me tighter. ‘Show’s not over yet.’
It seems the Baron is in agreement. He’s bouncing on the soles of his feet like an overeager schoolboy as he addresses the crowd. ‘Who here thinks I should up the stakes?’
The Bear heaves himself off the ground, panting heavily. I frown, confused. What higher stakes could there possibly be?
The Baron’s gaze falls on me. The look on his face is so revoltingly slimy that I feel sullied by it. He raises his voice above the din and declares, ‘Whoever wins gets the girl.’
Everything slows as his words land, and my heart beats out of time. Magic hums through my veins, sparking like flint on steel, begging to be unleashed. It takes everything I have, and more, not to turn the entire province to ice.
Down in the pit, Fox has gone very still. Something primal flashes in his eyes – rage so powerful I can almost feel it pouring off him, red-hot and ferocious.
I watch as the Bear peers up at me, his mouth twisted into a toothless smile. To my utter disgust, he licks his lips. The crowd hoot and jeer. I struggle in Garrick’s grip and he presses his blade harder into my throat. I fear if I swallow, it’ll break the skin.
Fox cracks his neck as the Bear advances once more.
The Baron’s announcement seems to have given the brute a new lease of life.
His mace flies through the air with precision and catches Fox on the arm.
Blood soaks the sleeve of Fox’s shirt and he snarls.
I barely have time to blink before his own weapon slashes out in a blur of silver.
The Bear howls and Fox decides to switch hands, tossing the sword high with his right and catching it in his left. The crowd respond with enthusiasm. I shake my head incredulously. Even now, with his life on the line, he can’t resist putting on a show.
Yet to my surprise, Fox begins to back off, retreating slowly until he collides with the lowered portcullis. He’s hemming himself in, making himself vulnerable. But why?
The Bear grasps his opportunity. He raises the mace above his head and throws it with all his might towards Fox – who ducks before it can meet its mark. With a deafening clang, the mace collides with the portcullis and lodges in the steel grate.
Fox darts out of the way as the Bear lurches towards it. But try as he might, the Bear can’t pull it free. Behind me, Garrick curses. The Bear whirls on Fox, but Fox is ready for him. I watch, open-mouthed, as Fox plunges his sword deep into the Bear’s abdomen.
The crowd gasps. The Baron is on his feet, his monocled eye blinking in disbelief.
Fox takes a step back, breathing heavily, his sword still protruding from the Bear’s flesh.
I wait for the Bear to keel over. Instead, he grips the hilt of the sword and pulls.
Blood bubbles from the wound in his stomach and drips on to the ground.
With a savage cry he tosses the weapon across the pit.
It collides with the stone wall and breaks in two.
My relief is quickly replaced by horror as the Bear takes a staggering step forward, then another. He’s bleeding out, but he’s still standing. He’s going to fight to the end. Except now Fox has no weapon.
The Bear flexes one hand, his set of brass knuckles glinting in the torchlight, studded with the razor-sharp teeth of his victims.
Fox dodges the first swipe and the second, but then he stumbles over a pile of broken spears and almost loses his footing. The third blow catches him on the shoulder. Grimacing with pain, he reaches down and snatches up a rusted spearhead.
He’s covered in blood, green eyes blazing, and in this moment all the feelings I’ve tried to drown and burn and bury come shooting to the surface, almost painful in their intensity. I can deny them no longer.
Fox has to win. He has to win because … because I don’t want to lose him.
The Bear staggers, succumbing to his wound. Fox seizes his chance. As the Bear lunges, Fox drives the spearhead up towards his neck.
That’s when Garrick slices his knife along my collarbone.
I let out a piercing scream, which causes Fox to whip his head round in alarm – just in time for the Bear’s gleaming brass knuckles to pierce his chest.
The crowd erupts, but all I can hear is ringing silence as the Bear drags his fist down, slicing Fox’s skin to ribbons.
Fox stares at the blood pouring from the puncture wounds. Swallows.
Then falls to his knees.
Suddenly Garrick lets out a howl of pain. I look down to find Scout, her teeth sunk deep into his calf. Adrenaline surges through me, the sensation as potent as magic. I barely know what I’m doing before I’ve done it. Raw instinct kicks in and takes control.
I drive my hips back into Garrick’s groin. As he doubles over, I whirl round and thrust my wrists up to meet his knife, severing the rope that binds them. Then I pull Silverclaw from my boot and launch myself into the pit below.
The impact shudders through my joints, but the pain barely registers. My eyes are trained on the Bear. He’s looming over Fox, fist raised, ready to deliver the killing blow.
But he doesn’t get the chance, for I’ve already plunged my dagger into his back.
Hot blood spurts on to my face. The Bear roars in agony.
My heart beats loud in my ears as I look up at the Baron – at the man who conflates brutality with merriment, the man who saw me as nothing more than a prize to be won. His face is flushed with shock, and his monocle dangles loosely from its chain.
I grip Silverclaw’s hilt and twist hard. My hands are shaking but my voice is steady.
‘Nobody wins me.’