Chapter 50
Chapter Fifty
The Games
Elmo — Thirty-Two Years Ago
I’m sorry, Mum.
I have not called her that in years—not even inside my own head, not since I was very small. But I am sixteen now, almost an adult, and I can choose what is right.
I must.
I seize my knife and run.
I trained for this. They can’t claim I did not.
I sprint towards the three of them: Arran, Torin, and the screaming girl. A skeleton drives its sword downwards as sunlight pierces the purple cloud cover and flashes along the blade. I drop into the mud, legs extended, and slide. My boots strike its shins.
It topples.
I am upright before it hits the ground.
I grip one of its arms and wrench. The animating magic holds for perhaps ten seconds—the longest ten seconds of my life—before the limb tears free, the sword still clutched in its bony grasp. The severed arm falls inert. I kick it aside and claim the weapon.
Oh.
The sword is lighter than it looks, about the weight of a hefty library book; it is merely unwieldy.
The skeleton ignores me. It still has a second blade, and its hollow gaze remains fixed on Torin. Another skeleton moves in—it is becoming a crowd.
Arran presses on, dragging the girl towards the tunnel as she screams.
I kick the first skeleton.
Nothing.
It does not care about me. Its magic is locked on Torin, or on whatever Arran has forced him to do.
I swing the sword instead. Metal strikes bone with a clang, and the impact shudders up both arms.
I hold my breath and wait.
I turn to Torin. “Go! Run!”
He shakes his head, eyes fixed on the skeleton. “They’re animated,” he says. “I can see the threads.”
Violet strands spill from his fingers, catching and snaring the magic inside the bones.
The skeleton crumbles at my feet.
“Wow,” I say.
He snatches up a fallen sword.
“Can you do that again?”
“I don’t think so.”
Something shuffles behind me.
His eyes widen.
I wheel around—muscle memory takes over before thought can catch up—and sweep my sword upwards to meet the skeleton’s blade just in time. This one has three arms, each wielding its own sword.
First thought: I am going to die.
Second: That hurt.
The impact judders through my arms and into my shoulders. I much prefer striking things that can’t strike back.
I twist aside as another blade falls, let my wrist roll with the momentum, and bring my sword around in a backhand I didn’t know I possessed. I aim not for the sword but for the limb and hack at the shoulder joint with both hands. Not elegant. Not trained.
Merely determined.
And I do not miss.
I am not choosing where to hit this thing. I am hitting where it will come apart. Anatomy lessons, probably. Or luck. Or whatever a body does when it decides it would rather not die today.
No time. Move.
Then I dive clear.
Sword dancing, climbing, every half-hearted hobby, every footwork drill I barely took seriously at the time—somehow it all finds its way into my body now.
The sword grows heavier with every swing.
My shoulders scream and my back aches, but I keep moving: twisting away from one blade, ducking beneath the next, and almost whirling into a third before dropping into a roll.
I rise behind it.
The third arm guards its back, but the shoulder I have been working on is exposed. I change targets. Two hard blows to the wrist, and the second sword clatters free, skidding across the mud.
A small, involuntary cry of triumph escapes me.
Torin keeps it busy from the front with his stolen sword while I attack from behind. I strike for the neck—useless, I realise at once—then turn my attention to the spine, hacking until the skull breaks free.
Nothing happens.
It does not need a head. Magic, not flesh, animates it. I give a breathless laugh at my own stupidity and attack the ankle instead.
Three strikes bring it down. It drags itself forwards on one arm and one leg, clawing through the mud, still fighting.
Something soft inside me recoils. I feel pity for it—absurd, since it was never alive—but the feeling lingers anyway. For one suspended moment, I simply watch it crawl.
Then I force myself to scan for the next threat. More skeletons advance on us, so we sprint away together.
“Thank you,” he gasps.
“You’re welcome. I’m sorry I didn’t act sooner. When he hit you, I should have—”
“It’s okay. You saved my life. Thank you.”
We keep running.
Too late, I see Arran shove the girl towards another pair of skeletons. They turn on her instead of him. Exhausted, she stumbles, and when the blades fall, she has no time even to scream.
I look away.
The remaining children seize the distraction Arran has created and stream towards the tunnel. I search the crowd for Nessa, for Keeley—
There.
Nessa drags Keeley by the arm. For an instant, I think she is helping. Why would anyone not help the little girl?
Then I see the iron knife in her other hand, held close to Keeley’s body in silent threat.
She is not helping.
She is copying Arran’s technique.
Keeley turns and spots me across the gap. Her brown eyes are wide, filled with a fear that drops like a stone into my stomach.
I run.
“Nessa, let go of her.”
She swears and keeps moving, angling towards the tunnel and the knot of skeletons that has splintered from the main fight. Most are still occupied with the stream of children.
If she drags Keeley into that gap, throws her at the—
I hurl myself at her.
Nessa goes down, and her grip on Keeley breaks. I drop the sword.
She drives the iron knife into my side.
The blade burns as it enters—an exact, alien wrongness unlike any pain I have imagined. Heat floods through me. Iron magic. My breath tears from my lungs, but I keep my weight on her, blood soaking my clothes as I use everything I have to hold her down.
My warded jacket has ridden up, exposing the narrow strip of skin between its hem and my waistband.
Enough for Nessa.
Bad luck.
A lesson flashes through my mind: if you are stabbed, leave the weapon in. Once the seal breaks, the wound bleeds harder.
I press one hand over the hilt and pin her with the other.
“Go!” I shout at Keeley. I jerk my head towards the tunnel. “Run. Don’t look back.”
“But what about you?” She is sobbing, her small face crumpled.
“I’m right behind you,” I say. I lift my chin the way she does, and smile. “Go now. Go.”
She runs.
Beneath me, Nessa laughs and reaches for the knife.
I punch her. “No, you don’t.”
I wait until Keeley disappears into the tunnel, then roll clear. I bunch my shirt around the blade to keep pressure on the wound and drag myself upright.
“That’s your problem.” Nessa spits blood into the mud. “You do-gooders. You’ve no idea what it’s like living in the dregs.” She laughs. “But you will.”
I pick up the sword.
I cannot lift it. The pain in my side is too sharp, and each breath saws against the blade. I drag it instead; the metal carves a line through the mud beside me.
A bell begins to toll somewhere beyond the wall.
Nessa smiles through the blood on her teeth. “You’ll find out,” she sneers. “You’ve run out of time.”
Behind me, a skeleton reaches her.
I do not look back.
I could have helped her.
I know that.
I shall carry it.
But I keep my eyes fixed on the tunnel.
A portcullis slams down just before I reach it. Its spikes drive into the earth with a final thud.
I glance at the bone wall. There is no chance of climbing it—not while I am bleeding, shaking, and hauling a sword I can barely move.
I have run out of time.
One by one, the skeletons collapse. Bones tumble into the mud, and swords gleam where they fall.
The rain intensifies, cold against my face, and mixes with the blood that soaks my shirt. I sway in the middle of it all, my hand clamped around the knife in my side.
Knowing it is over.