Chapter Seven Tazkar, of Stone and Earth #3
The beast buckled, then reared back wildly, an awful braying sound echoing from its throats. It tried to fling her off, but her spear was a foot deep in it, and her grip was stubborn. More and more scorching flames flew wildly around, and she ducked and dodged every single burst.
One hand securing the spear embedded in beast flesh, she ripped out the spare knife she had kept in her belt and drove it over and over into the fire-breather’s neck.
But the blade was too short, and though blackish blood spilled over her hand and coated her fingers, she succeeded only in enraging the beast further.
Then a long blade came down, cutting through the fire-breather’s head until it rolled lifelessly on the ground.
Desil had leaped down from the ledge after her, sword at the ready. His arm was raised now, muscles rippling as it brought the blade down to the remaining neck.
But the frost-burner suddenly swerved with before-unseen fervor and met his gaze.
Fortune switched in that whiplash of a second.
A pained sound jerked from Desil’s throat, sword tumbling from his grasp. He took a stumbling step backward, then froze like a man turned into a statue. He twitched, red veins staining the white of his eyes. He groaned in sheer, overwhelming agony.
A rumble of concerned cries from the spectators closed in on them.
Lythlet stared in horror. She ripped her pole free, slamming the bladed edge against the ice-burner, newfound strength helping her tear through flesh and bone.
She hacked away, not strong enough to kill in a single strike as Desil had, but desperate savagery consumed her.
A dozen times she drove the blade into it until at last the creature’s head tumbled to the ground, white bone and frayed ligaments exposed, a spurt of blood tainting the yellow dust of the ground.
A cry of relief ripped from her, and she slammed her spear into the ground, burying the red-stained blade deep as she slumped against it.
Hoo-rah, hoo-rah, she heard, piercing the buzzing din in her ears. Clapping hands, stomping feet, hoo-rah, hoo-rah .
Her lungs struggled to keep up with her adrenaline, a dizziness threatening her body, but she managed to weave one coherent thought out.
Something’s wrong .
The audience was cheering, but there was something strangely restrained to it. Half-hearted, somehow. She looked up. Some looked back at her.
Most looked beyond her.
She turned around warily.
Desil was slouched over on the ground, not moving.
“Well, well, well,” Master Dothilos leered into his trumpet, voice slithering restlessly against her nerves.
Her boots stirred up dust as she tumbled to his side.
“Desil?” She rolled him over and grabbed his head.
His cheeks were freezing to the touch, and she recoiled in shock. The olivastro undertone of his skin had been blanched white. His breath steamed out in cold, wispy clouds, and his reddened eyes were lifeless.
She slapped him, calling his name.
He stared beyond her.
She fell back, horrified.
They had beheaded the beast twice over, and it lay in a fetid heap a pace away, blood leaking profusely onto the sanded ground. The frost consuming his mind and flesh should have melted when his gaze with the beast broke. If not then, then with the beast’s death.
The spectator stands had fallen alarmingly silent.
Master Dothilos smiled at her, chin resting on palm. He raised his trumpet. “It dawns upon the ugly lass the match is far from over. I doubt even our savviest spectator knows what’s happening—it’s not a frequent sight, this here! I myself have only witnessed it once before, a long time ago.”
Her spirits rose. The match-master knew what was wrong. He could rescue Desil.
But Master Dothilos only turned to the audience.
“Spectators, now’s the time to extend your bets!
Will Lythlet Tairel solve this riddle, or will she forfeit?
There’s not a lot of time left before the thread of her dearest friend’s life is severed.
As Desil Demothi is unable to forfeit, hers alone will suffice, if she so chooses.
Get your coins ready! My men are coming around to collect your bets. ”
Lythlet fought the urge to wrench her spear from the ground and throw it at him.
Calm down . She had no time to waste. She needed to think.
She patted Desil’s back, begging into his ear, “Wake up.” She tried to rub his cheeks to warm him, but the chill was unbearable on her bare skin.
Her frost-burn had ended the moment she broke her gaze with the Sentinel. What was different now?
I killed it before it broke its gaze , she realized. Its spell, its bloodright, whatever it is—it did not finish on proper terms .
“Tick tock, tick tock!” jeered the match-master.
A flash of anger, then an inward reminder she must stay calm.
On a hunch, she retrieved her spear and dove toward the beast-head rolled on its side.
Those blue eyes were now powerless in death except to one.
She plunged the tip into the eyeballs, gouging them out of their sockets, too desperate to mind the gore spilling over her hands.
They were plum-sized in her grip, and she stabbed them each, popping them furiously until ichor ran all over her arms in a rapidly congealing mess. She looked back at Desil.
He remained still.
A sob escaped her unwillingly.
“Tick tock, tick tock! Time’s running out to place your bets, spectacular spectators!”
She had no inkling what else to pursue. It had made sense to destroy the eyes as a last resort. What else could kill a beast and its poisoned sight, if not beheading it, if not blinding it?
“Tick tock, tick tock!” The spectators had joined in now.
Forfeit . I must forfeit and let the match-master save Desil before it’s too late.
As she reached for the baltascar pendant, a miserable thought took hold, not for the first time, not for the last time: slumdogs chasing their own tails in a circle .
No matter how hard she fought, no matter how clever she pushed herself to be, this was where all her efforts would lead her.
She stared up at the audience, the racket of highborn peers, seeing clearer than ever they cared not a whit for either her or Desil.
Her value existed only if she could entertain them; her survival mattered only if they could profit from it.
On the verge of tears, her eyes flashed to Ilden and Shunvi. But they only stared, confounded, faces screwed up in concern at Desil. Shunvi shook his head pityingly; he had no answer.
She tugged on the necklace, the cord almost coming undone. But she stopped.
Up in the stands, at the furthest row back, there was a primly dressed black-haired man.
He was sitting by himself, waving conspicuously at her.
He made gestures, small, too subtle for her to understand.
He continued, miming stabbing downwards.
He then thumped at the square of his breast, where his heart—
The eyes carry the curse, but it begins deeper within.
She flung away the collapsed eyeballs, tossed aside the bleeding head on her lap, and darted to the body of the slain beast. Approximating where its heart was, she buried the blade of her polearm into it.
Nothing happened. A faint, icy breath escaped Desil’s lips, and his chest slowed. It wouldn’t be long until his last breath.
Lythlet wrested her pole out, swapping it for the small knife.
She had more finesse with it, ramming it into flesh, rending it asunder.
Blood spilled freely over her hands, muddying her fingers with its stickiness, and she dug through rough muscle and hard bone with both hands.
Her fingers wrapped around a small fluid-filled sac, and she squished it aside—and there was the heart, still squirming in its fleshy cavern.
She ripped it out, arteries pulsing violently in her grasp, and pierced it with the knife.
When Desil cried out, her own heart stopped, and her hands shook, grip loosening on the knife’s hilt. Steeling her nerves, she tightened it once more, delivering another stab, pushing the blade in to the hilt, the tip peeking out the other side.
Desil heaved a huge breath, his broad chest swelling with life at last.
She threw aside the punctured organ, dashing to cradle him.
His cheek was still cool, but she could feel warm blood flushing beneath the skin.
“Lythlet,” he groaned, “it feels like I’ve been pulled out of a winter lake—”
Bursting into tears, she buried her face into her hands soaked with blackish blood and congealing ichor.
He grabbed her to comfort her, but his words were drowned out by cheers from above. The spectators clapped their hands and stomped their feet, a cacophony of hoo-rah! hoo-rah! hoo-rah! pressing deep into her eardrums.
Above the clamor, Master Dothilos’s silky voice rose, “Bravo! I’m sure most of us were expecting Lythlet Tairel to forfeit at any moment.
A very perceptive strike indeed, searching for the beast’s heart.
I would have thought she’d give up after trying the anzura’s eyes, but no!
Spectators, would you look at her weeping now?
Such heartwarming affection! My, my, my, could we be witnessing a childhood love finally taking root? ”
Lythlet wiped her eyes on her sleeve, smearing blood onto it, and held up a hand to make a very rude gesture at the match-master.
Laughter bellowed from the spectators.
Master Dothilos called them for a bow, but she turned on her heels for the gate. The thought of bowing to any of these bastards infuriated her.
Desil gave a quick bob of his head to appease the crowd and trailed after her.