31. Marcus
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
MARCUS
T he starting line barely fits fifteen riders across comfortably.
Eighty-one horses shift on their hooves, huffing impatiently from their snouts. Thankfully, the sun has hidden itself behind the clouds rolling in from the Multum Sea, a summer storm brewing out over the water.
Marcus will be grateful for the wind on his face once the race starts; though the sun disappeared, the air is stagnant and oppressive. Moisture coats his skin and his tunic sticks to him uncomfortably.
The spectators sit off to the side on stone formations which were once as upkept as the arena but have fallen into ruin since the last blood trials.
They wipe their brows and grumble unintelligibly, growing impatient for the start.
Ambitus and the gamemasters settle into an alcove partly carved out of the earth at the starting line.
Ambitus has been staring at Marcus since he took his place at the center of the viewing area.
He imagines it’s due to the exiling of his sacerdos, but all it does is solidify Marcus’s choice not to kill the holy man.
Ambitus would’ve seen that as an act of war and immediately taken Anziano under his jurisdiction .
He glances over at Dru beside him. Sabina helped her wrap the burnt wounds carved into her arms by the lion this morning, just to be cautious.
Dru also put on pants beneath her tunic—another precaution.
Exhaustion shows through in the bruises beneath her eyes and bends her shoulders. She must not have slept well again.
For the first time since he brought her to Anziano, worry pinches her brow. She draws in slow, deep breaths, gripping the reins of her horse too tight. He wants to reach out, reassure her. Instead, he keeps his hands on his own reins, still unsure if she would welcome it.
Behind him, five full rows fill the space, with a few stragglers in the back.
By his count, that means eighteen people died in the maze.
Dru nearly made it nineteen. He closes his eyes for a moment, halting those thoughts.
If the history of past trials serves itself, nearly half of the competitors left will die in this trial, and he’s going to do all he can to make sure Dru and Cato won’t be counted among them.
After two drum beats, Venatus Magister Blaise speaks. “The rules for this trial are as follows: stick to the designated path; no long-range personal weapons like arrows or spears allowed; and the competitor in last place will be killed.”
Cato stiffens. “That last one is new.”
“So it would seem,” Marcus agrees, wondering if he needs to rethink his plan. There’s no time.
The three of them occupy the middle of the front row—a bad spot to be in unless you’re a fast rider from the starting line.
Likely a tactic contrived by Blaise . If trained properly, every competitor will use whatever means necessary to take out their competition, and always having to look over one’s shoulder gives a distinct disadvantage.
After checking once more on the altered reins of Dru’s horse, Marcus leans in to speak to her. “You’re not going to like what I’m about to say.”
She matches his tone. “Then don’t say it.”
“This race isn’t about winning,” he continues anyway, his horse huffing impatiently beneath him. “And while I know you’re trained in horsemanship and a decent rider, it’s not enough to survive this trial.”
“I’ll be fine, Marcus.” Dru pats her horse’s neck and straightens. “Have a little faith in me.”
“I do have faith in you. Which is why I think we should work together.”
She finally meets his gaze. “And how do you propose we do that?”
Leaning in closer, he whispers into her ear, acutely aware of how close they are.
Of how her nearness draws warmth to his chest and lower, deeper.
Of how, even now, moments before they begin a race for their lives, he wants to delve his hand into her hair, to press his lips to the space just below her ear.
He wishes he didn’t want her at such an inopportune time, but he can’t help himself.
Her gold-rimmed eyes watch him carefully as he pulls away. “You’re sure that’s necessary? What about Cato?”
“We don’t need to worry about him. He’s been a great rider since he was a boy—he’ll pull out in front of everyone and make it to the finish line without a scratch on him.”
She sits back in her saddle, a gentle smile pulling at her lips. “You’re worried about me.”
It’s not an accusation or a question, merely a statement of fact.
He holds her gaze. “I am, and I’m not afraid to admit it.”
Her lips part slightly and she searches his face. Stellae, she’s stubborn.
After a moment, she nods seriously. “All right.”
“Good.”
He turns his attention forward, gripping his horse’s reins as the beast shifts beneath him. A nervous understanding passes between them.
Taught ropes stretch before them at the chest- and knee-level of their horses to mark the starting line, waiting for the sound of the final drum beat. Once those drop, the race begins.
Right as he thinks this, the drum reverberates once and the ropes fall to the ground.
Cato immediately gallops off, another rider with a red Phaedran band on her arm trailing not far behind him.
Cato will outrun her; he’ll outrun all of them , Marcus reminds himself as he whips the reins of his own horse to follow, Dru keeping pace beside him. He has no idea if their plan will work, given the many ways it could go wrong, but he’d cut off his own arm before leaving Dru behind.
Dozens of hooves pound the dirt as some participants fall back while others surge ahead. Marcus keeps a solid pace on this wider straightaway, knowing he doesn’t want to take the first corner too fast.
Before they make it to the first turn, the shink of a sword being unsheathed makes its way to him over the cacophony of hooves.
Deodamnatus . He shouldn’t be surprised someone wants to draw blood so early in the competition, but it’s a nuisance all the same.
He listens as one of the competitors comes up on his exposed flank, quickening their pace.
“Marcus,” Dru mutters without turning her head. “You’ve got a visitor.”
His horse galloping hard beneath him, he glances over his shoulder at his attacker: a piece of cloth covers their face, clothes loose on their small frame, a hooked sword gripped in their hand. A part of him wants to show mercy, given he can’t know who volunteered to be here and who was forced.
If they already have a sword in their hand, that means they want to be here. Someone forced into it would ride defensively and stay out of the way.
Marcus doesn’t plan to do that.
Deftly unsheathing his own sword, he waits until the other rider closes in.
Out of the corner of his eye, he watches them lift their weapon to strike—when he thrusts his own sword backward.
The blade meets its mark at the center of their stomach, sinking into their flesh until he pulls it back out with a squelch.
His attacker drops their weapon and clutches their midsection, their horse losing speed swiftly.
Marcus breathes out, wiping his sword on his tunic and sheathing it again. Luckily, they weren’t well-trained; any soldier would’ve put up a fight and forced him to lose control of his horse. Next time, he might not be so lucky.
Approaching the first bend to the right, the sea comes into view, revealing the treacherous cliffs and the unending gray clouds beyond.
He cocks his head at Dru, and she maneuvers herself to the side furthest from the edge, allowing him to be more exposed.
Given he’s the better rider between them, he can defend himself more easily to attacks.
Spectators line the hills opposite the cliffs, cheering and waving as they gallop by. Most of the competitors follow behind them, but concern hastens Marcus’s pulse. He can’t stop looking over his shoulder, watching the others close in on them.
The nearest rider to him pulls out his blade.
Marcus catches Dru’s eye, and she nods in understanding. Bringing his horse close to her, he hands her the single rein. With the other horse firmly in her grip, Marcus turns in his saddle sightly, finding the man almost upon them.
“Your sword,” Marcus commands after pulling his own from its sheath again.
She hands it to him. “This had better work.”
He smiles to himself as he grips both blades and throws her own words back at her. “Have faith in me.”
“Not as if you’ve given me a choice,” she mutters.
“Just keep your eyes forward,” he tells her.
Once the horse comes within reach, he swings one sword out at the horse’s front knee and the other at the competitor’s thigh before they can react, barely nicking them.
It’s enough for the beast’s knees to buckle, throwing the man to the ground face-first. A plume of dirt settles around the downed horse and his rider, lost among the rest of the competitors.
Marcus turns back and hands her the sword, regaining his seat and grabbing his rein from her before they go around another bend. The path—marked by thin posts staked into the dirt—takes them up a slight incline in the terrain, forcing them to slow.
Behind him, metal clashes, the distinct squish of a blade meeting its mark causing him to flinch. He glances back to see another competitor coming for them, wiping the blood from his sickle onto his tunic.
Once they make it to even ground, he whips the rein, hoping to lose the attacker. But Dru falls behind when he does, sword still in hand.
“Come on!” he yells. Glancing back, his heart slides up his throat as the competitor gains on her. “Behind you!”
Coming up beside her, both Dru’s horse and the competitor’s gallop in tandem. The attacker pulls back their arm, glinting blade in their hand?—
Dru leans over and buries her sword deep into their leg. They scream, dropping their weapon. Blood gushes from the wound and drips down the horse’s flank as they fall behind, lost to the horde of other competitors.