Chapter 18
The pits, it turned out, were exactly what they sounded like.
Quentin blinked against the harsh glare of the lights powered by those strange sun panels, scanning the raised ledge of the pit.
He’d been led beneath the bar into a series of dark tunnels winding under the city, until he’d been shoved through iron-barred doors. That was how he’d ended up here, blinded by artificial sunlight. Far above, almost invisible, the stars twinkled in the night sky.
So, they were outside. Wonderful. Grinning faces looked down at him, at least twenty feet above. The walls were a smooth, polished sandstone, free of any grooves or handholds.
A gong sounded above the rabble of the crowd.
“We have an unexpected treat for you this evening, my friends!” Koury’s voice, somehow amplified, peeled through the pits. The crowd roared in answer.
“The arrival of foreigners on our land—foreigners who have long shut us out and treated us as lesser people—is an affront to our traditions. We Kreah are proud and strong. If our leaders will not stand up for us against invasion, then I know everyone here is prepared to do so themselves!”
The cacophony escalated, near deafening.
How far were they from the city? Surely someone could hear this mob.
Even as he had the thought, icy dread slid through Quentin’s veins. They were still very much in Desva, but he’d seen the darkening underbelly. He knew what being on this side of the city meant. No one cared about the violence slithering in the depths.
He even caught glimpses and flashes of smooth polished steel, of white capes and robes. There were guards in that crowd. Guards who, like these people, saw Onitans as an intruding enemy come to steal all they had.
Yeah. This night was really not going well.
“A surprise made its way to our streets,” Koury continued over the roar of the crowd. “Not just any Onitan rat. But one of their whore queen’s own bonded guards, a legendary Armature.”
The crowd hissed and jeered, some even spitting into the pit. Quentin shrugged it off; he’d been called far worse.
He preferred for them to mock him. At least it meant he was being underestimated.
“He has volunteered to stand up for the honor of his queen. And, as humble hosts, who are we to deny him?”
Cackling laughs echoed into the night.
The gong sounded again. “Tonight, he is Onita’s champion. Tonight, he faces the desert and skies of Kreah!”
The creak of the door at the other side of the pit was barely audible over the crowd. Quentin slowly planted his feet, feeling the earth beneath his boots.
“Fighting for the desert will be Durak, Goliath of Desva!”
Quentin swallowed as his opponent strode into the pit, the ground shaking with his steps.
Goliath was putting it mildly. The man was massive.
Close to seven feet tall, with arms like boulders and legs thick as tree trunks.
A vicious scar arched down the side of his face, extending onto his neck and across his shoulders.
His chest was bare, and he grinned wickedly as he unslung an ungodly broadsword from across his back.
This was fine. Yes, this brute was huge and strong and terrifying. But there was no chance he moved as fast as Quentin. Skin was skin; no amount of muscle could stop a dagger from slitting a throat.
Quentin flexed his hands, ready to palm his knives tucked into his baldric. His Kreah hosts had been gracious enough to give him a short sword, the kind preferred in Kreah, which he’d strapped across his back.
That sword would do little against this foe, though. Daggers were his friend tonight, as they’d been since he was a scrawny boy fighting for survival on ruthless city streets.
“Gentlemen.” Koury’s smooth voice slid into the air. “Honor demands sacrifice. The Onitan stands against Kreah and must therefore face the desert.” He paused. Wherever he was, Quentin could almost feel the cruel smile spreading across his face.
“This will be a fight to the death. Begin.”
That was all the warning Quentin had before Durak lunged, his roar splitting the air with a swing of his broadsword.
Quentin dived to the left, tumbling into a roll as the broadsword buried into the sands where he’d just been standing. He crouched low, sliding two daggers from his baldric.
The giant met his stare with fury-filled black eyes, lips pulled back from his teeth in a snarl.
“Being quick will only last you so long, rat.” Durak yanked his sword from the sand. “You can’t run forever. There is not a chance in the desert's smooth song that you best me.”
Quentin shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “I should’ve died long ago. I’m pretty good at not getting caught.” Current circumstance aside.
Durak roared. His sword swung up with surprising deftness, exposing his bare midsection.
Quentin shot across the sands, dagger aimed and ready to sink into the giant’s stomach.
A battering ram slammed into his side. He flew across the pits with a crack. Above, the crowds went wild.
A soft groan slipped past Quentin’s teeth. He forced his eyes to stay open, the giant raising his fists to the audience. Quentin palmed his daggers then prodded his side with an elbow, nearly hissing from the pain.
He hadn’t even seen the man swing his fist. His ribs were badly bruised, for sure. Maybe even broken.
So, the giant wasn’t as slow as he looked. Splendid.
Durak lowered his gaze back to Quentin, victory already written across his face. Quentin forced himself to lay still as the goliath stalked near, raising his sword to his shoulder.
“Is this truly the best Onita has?” Durak spat in the sands. “Pathetic. I expected so much more.”
“Sorry…to disappoint,” Quentin wheezed. He told himself it was an act, that the pain in his voice was feigned.
But no. It was very much real.
Durak smiled wide, lifting his blade. Again exposing his midsection, drunk on his strength and victory and the caterwauling of the crowd.
This time, though, Quentin was ready.
The giant swung his broadsword down with a bellow, a killing blow. It again sank harmlessly into the sands, burrowing nearly to the hilt.
Quentin’s abdomen was on fire, but Durak’s blood spreading across the hilts of his daggers—one buried in the man’s side, hopefully puncturing a lung, the other sunken into the space between his thick neck and shoulder—helped with the pain.
Durak roared into the night, eyes swinging to Quentin, pain and fury etching across his scarred face. Above them, the crowd booed.
Quentin smirked. “First blood, assho—”
Durak’s fist slammed into the side of his face, blacking out the beaming lights. Quentin flew to the packed sands, landing with a heavy, painful thump. He coughed, mouth filling with copper as he fought to stay conscious.
“Mashka,” Durak snarled, heavy footsteps staggering across the earth. Quentin hauled himself to all fours and forced his head up, spitting out a wad of blood.
The giant yanked Quentin’s dagger from his chest. Blood spurted down Durak’s side, staining the sands. He did the same to the knife in his shoulder, turning his bronze skin burgundy.
Idiot. That wound in his side definitely went as deep as Quentin thought it had. The fool would bleed out there on the sands.
Quentin supposed it didn’t matter if they both died. It only mattered who died first.
That hulking monster of a man could take hours to bleed out. Even with a punctured lung.
Blood leaked from the sides of Durak’s mouth, but his dark eyes shone with violence and rage.
“I have fought many battles, little rat,” he said, voice slightly muffled by the blood flooding his lungs and crawling up his throat.
“I have won them all. I have earned the right to fight for the desert. The desert does not lose to mashka; it claims them.”
Ah, so mashka must mean rat.
“Funny,” Quentin said, pushing to his knees.
He tried to ignore the way he wavered. “I always thought rats were the survivors. Like I said, I should’ve died long before tonight.
But somehow, I just keep finding ways to come back for more.
” His smile widened, even though it pained the rapidly forming bruises on his face.
He lifted a palm, holding it out flat in front of him.
Then he curled his fingers back to himself, beckoning.
Durak took the bait splendidly.
Snarling through the blood in his mouth, the giant threw himself across the pit, barreling straight for Quentin, broadsword left forgotten in the sands.
Quentin pulled every drop of training and strength to himself as he jumped to his feet, unslinging his short sword from the scabbard at his back.
Durak was still charging, but his steps were noticeably more sluggish and cumbersome. His arms reached for Quentin, hate glimmering in his eyes.
When he was no more than a foot away, Quentin moved.
He dived forward, slipping under the giant’s extended hands. Gripping tight to the leather pommel of his sword, he angled his hands up as he sidestepped to the right.
It was just far enough for his blade to take the place of where his body had been moments before. Just enough for the sharp edge to sink into the soft exposed flesh of Durak’s abdomen, to widen the wound made by his knife, to soak Quentin’s hands with his sticky blood.
A foul stench filled the air as Quentin leaped away, dragging the blade with him. He whirled on his heels, sword still lifted.
Durak stood still and straight. The crowds were booing loudly, calling to their champion. The giant slowly turned with staggered, lilting steps.
Well, now Quentin knew what that smell was.
His slice had struck deep and true. Durak’s intestines were freed from his body, hanging down to his knees. The crowds fell silent, disbelief washing over them.
Durak slowly sank to his knees. Light flickered in his eyes.
Quentin knew the look of a man on the precipice of death; he’d put many there himself. The giant’s lifeblood was pouring across the sands, soaking deep into the earth.