Chapter 18 #2
Quentin slipped his final dagger free from his baldric. Pressing a quick kiss to the blade, he cocked his wrist and sent it flying.
It buried to the hilt in Durak’s left eye. The giant pitched forward, sinking into the sands.
Dead.
Quentin heaved a sigh and fell to his knees, glancing up at the quiet crowd.
“This little rat beat your champion,” he called hoarsely. “My queen’s honor stands. Release me.”
The crowd didn’t answer.
“Surprisingly well fought, Armature.” Koury’s disembodied voice came over whatever it was that amplified it. “I’ll admit, none here expected you to master the desert. Perhaps there is something to be said of the legends, after all.”
Quentin cracked a grin, wiping blood off his chin. “Thanks. Not the only thing I’m legendary at.” He couldn't see them, but he knew they were watching him. He tossed up his best wink, despite the bruises spreading across his face.
Silence crackled around them before Koury chuckled.
“You misunderstand,” he said slowly. “This is not any ordinary fighting pit. The people of Kreah value honor above all else. If someone feels their honor has been wronged, they may take it here. To name a champion of their own or to fight themselves.”
“Wait.” Quentin’s mind was growing fuzzy, but he clung to Koury’s words. “I could have named a champion? Why the fuck didn’t you tell me that?”
“Because you are not fighting for your own honor. You offered to stand for your queen. You volunteered—as her champion.”
“And I won. If you value honor, then I have defended hers.”
“Foreigners,” Koury spat. “They never understand.” The crowd hissed. “Our traditions are old, boy. Many in the brighter parts of the city no longer wish to follow them. But here, to defend your honor, you must face the champion of the desert…and the champion of the sky.”
What?
That couldn’t mean…
The door across the pit again slowly creaked open.
“You may have bested the deserts, Armature, but the skies decide all our fates. Let us welcome Oralla, Fang of the Sky!”
The crowd again erupted as a slight figure, the opposite in every way to the fallen goliath, sauntered into the pit.
She wore thin leather armor and bore no weapons. Her hair was white as bone and hung long past her waist, her eyes as pale blue as the sky at the crest of day.
Quentin blinked. He’d learned long ago not to judge any opponent by their appearance. This woman, while carrying a fierce set to her shoulders, looked as unassuming as any.
When her eyes shifted into the slitted pupils of a cat, Quentin understood.
She may not look Kreah in appearance, but she certainly had Rulene’s magic.
The pale woman vanished in a flash of blinding blue light.
In her place stood a massive white cat with cloud-gray streaks patterning her coat.
Those same pale blue eyes shone out of a wide head, and twin fangs—each at least six inches long, daggers in their own right—arched from her upper jaw as her lips pulled back in a snarl.
Was it too late to revive Durak?
Oralla dropped into a stalk, circling Quentin. Keeping still, Quentin scanned the sands, doing everything in his power to control his panicked breathing.
Killing a fucking seven-foot-tall man was one thing. But this?
If he survived, Mariah was going to kill him.
The crowds above rose their taunting and shouting to a deafening roar. Oralla stopped her pacing, flexing her deadly claws into the sands.
Well. Here goes nothing.
Oralla launched across the pit with a fighting snarl just as Quentin dived into the sands.
His hands closed around the smooth, familiar handles of his daggers. Oralla twisted in the air above him. Searing pain erupted across his exposed back. His vision blurred, lights dotting the sand.
Something thumped heavily beside him. Blinding pain coursed through him. Gritting his teeth and clenching his trembling hands around his daggers, Quentin pushed himself up and spun, landing in a crouch.
The great white cat leaped to her feet, shaking the sands from her thick fur. Quentin’s blood stained her front claws and her deadly fangs were bared in a snarl.
Hot blood rolled down Quentin’s back. It dripped into the sands below him.
Don’t think about that right now. Win.
His mouth pulled into a sly smirk. “Here, kitty kitty.”
Nah, screw winning. He really did just have a death wish.
Oralla narrowed her pale eyes.
When she shot forward again, Quentin was ready.
Ignoring the screaming fire in his back, he twisted to the side just before the cat struck him square in the chest. Her fur brushed his arm as he stood to his full height and slammed his dagger into her shoulder, red blooming across white.
He kept his grip on his dagger tight as her momentum carried her past him. The dagger stayed buried in her flesh, dragging down her side. It finally wrenched free when it reached her hindquarter, leaving a ruby arch behind.
Oralla hit the sands with a piercing yowl of pain. Above, the crowds again fell silent.
Quentin whirled, still clutching his bloodied daggers. Oralla pushed to her feet. She wavered, her entire right side stained with blood, her stance unsteady.
They stared at each other across the pit, panting heavily, their respective bloods tarnishing the golden sands.
“Please,” Quentin murmured. “We don’t have to do this. Don’t make me kill you.”
The cat bared her teeth, snarling viciously, even as blood dribbled from her mouth. Even as her leg nearly gave out beneath her when she tried to take a faltering step forward.
Quentin flipped his dagger in his right hand. His heart pounded in his ears, louder than the drums beating above them.
“Very well.” He raised his right hand, dagger hanging from his relaxed grip. A throwing grip.
He knew what this was. Oralla was a warrior; she would never yield. Not unless commanded to stop. But her blood was still pouring over the sands, and the brilliance of her eyes dimmed with each pound of their hearts.
This would be a mercy kill, one warrior to another.
Quentin cocked his arm. Oralla dropped into an unsteady crouch. He inhaled sharply, steadying his aim—
“Stop!”
The drums fell silent as the command rang out across the pits, enhanced by whatever tool Koury had used.
But the voice was not Koury’s. It was a woman.
And it was very familiar.
“I am Kiira of House Touma. This ends now. High Counsellor Amasis has dispatched a squadron to deal with this illegal rabble. I advise you to disperse now, or else deal with the consequences of your actions.”
Chaos erupted.
Above the pit, the crowd broke into shouts and alarms. The shouts then shifted into growls and brays and cries as blue light peppered the night.
There was a commotion behind Quentin at one of the doors leading to the tunnels. Both he and Oralla turned, instinct pulling them both back into fighting stances.
The door burst open, and a large black cat—a panther—with reflective hazel eyes leaped into the pit.
“Rylla.” Quentin nearly fell to his knees in relief.
Wait, not relief. He knew this weightless rush that came at him like a wave, the way his ears buzzed and vision grew too bright under the artificial lights.
Blood loss. How wonderful.
Rylla locked eyes with Oralla, the two cats snarling. Oralla was significantly larger than Rylla, but she was wounded and weakened.
“Oralla.” Kiira’s voice again sounded over the amplification. “Back down. This fight is no longer for you, old friend.”
Old friend?
Oralla shook her head, her stance relaxing with Kiira’s words. The snarl faded from Rylla’s face as the great white cat turned away, limping to the other exit. Just before she was through, blue light flashed. The slight white-haired female staggered into the tunnel, hands clutched to her side.
Rylla turned to Quentin. He met her gaze, which was level with his own.
That was odd. Her panther form was big, but he didn’t remember it being that big.
Then he realized; he really had fallen to his knees. The world still swirled around him, fuzzy and dark in all the wrong places.
This really wasn’t good. But after what he’d learned tonight, he wasn’t sure he could trust a Kreah healer. Especially if it meant inviting said healer into Amasis’ serekah, where his queen slept.
Where other people slept.
Blue light flashed, and Rylla knelt before him, human once more.
“You need to get up, Quentin.” She offered her arm. “I’m going to help you up, but I should warn you, it’s going to hurt.”
Quentin waved a hand. “Eh, I can handle a little pain.” He placed his hand on her offered arm, bracing himself as he tried to stand.
He was very wrong.
He nearly blacked out when Rylla’s arm wrapped around his back, brushing against the sensitive and flayed flesh. Her shoulder slid beneath his and she pushed him to his feet, peeling him out of the sands. He leaned on her heavily and had never been more thankful he wasn’t some oversized war hero.
Rylla was strong, but she certainly couldn’t have hauled someone like Drystan out of the sands.
“We have to get you to a healer.” Rylla led him to the open tunnel. Lanterns hung in the hall beyond, lighting their way beneath the city.
Quentin shook his head. “No. Not a healer.”
“Quentin.” Rylla’s voice was a snarl. “You’ve lost too much blood. You need a healer.”
“The blood is already gone, Rylla. I just need someone to clean the wounds. My body will take care of the rest.” It had in the past, anyway.
Rylla made a frustrated noise. “Then where, pray tell, do you want to go?”
He wasn’t sure he managed to tell her before the world went black.