Chapter Twenty-One Izantas, of the Storm and the Fury #2
A mighty splash erupted, and something monstrous leaped in an arc over her.
Lythlet stumbled as the oversized creature gracefully sank back into the water by her left, its greenish-gray skin disappearing from sight, her platform swaying in the ensuing wave.
“Goblin-shark!” Desil shouted.
Her blood turned to ice.
All around them, spectators edged forward on their seats, hoping to catch a clearer sight of the fiend, loud gasps escaping their lips.
Even from the brief sighting, there was no doubt Desil was right. It was a goblin-shark, evident from the green hue of its skin, the serrated dorsal fins, and the red markings on its underside.
Without thinking, she made a series of jumps toward the edge of the arena and clambered up the rising flats on the wall until she was well away from danger—from the water. Desil did the same, always only one step behind her.
“What do we do?” he hissed.
“I don’t know.” Words she had not uttered in a long time, words she loathed confessing. “What do we know about goblin-sharks?”
“Very aggressive,” Desil supplied, looking equally helpless. “I know they’re from the sea around the eastern islands of the Ora Empire. I suppose they must be able to survive in freshwater, too, if it’s able to swim in this river.”
“Interesting, but not something we can work with.”
“Back in schooldays, a boy said his brother was out hunting for their meat with one of those Oraanu shark-hunting gangs.”
“And?”
“Nothing more.”
She winced, peering over the platform’s edge. Unfathomable water silenced all the bravado she’d mustered just moments ago. “Will it come out, or are we to go in after it?”
“Surely not,” Desil cried. “We’re shark feed the moment we plunge into the water. Master Dothilos hasn’t lost his mind, has he? He knows we can’t swim, he must. Hardly any Ederi can!”
He hasn’t lost his mind at all, she thought miserably . He’s simply a vindictive man who wants to make sure I know my place beneath him .
Lythlet frowned, raising her head. Master Dothilos stared back, fingers steepled together, goading her without a word.
He was enjoying every second of their helpless floundering.
Every minute longer the spectators watched them hide in the heights was a dent to their reputation and a notch on Master Dothilos’s victory belt.
“I think we must forfeit,” Desil whispered.
She gripped his wrist fiercely. “We don’t. The match-master is testing us, and I refuse to fail. To come this far and end it all without even trying would be foolish.”
His lips were pinched, but he nodded hesitantly.
“Stay with me.” She led the way, circling the arena with slow, cautious steps, waiting for a monster that refused to emerge.
Master Dothilos’s voice reached their ears: “Playing it safe can be wise, but a bit of danger is sometimes what you need to lure in your prey. It’s hungry, and it likes to know food’s close at hand.”
“He wants us back on the platforms,” she grimly translated.
With grievous reluctance, they leaped off the wall and landed neatly on separate platforms below. Standing poised side by side, their eyes never left the water, searching for tattletale ripples, their blades shining in the burning light.
There was nothing subtle about the goblin-shark’s second appearance, however. It flew out of the waters, diving toward them, jaws spread into a black vacuum ringed by rows and rows of enormous fangs. They ducked down just in time, avoiding its bite by hairstrings.
As it returned underwater, its tail smacked against Lythlet’s platform. It dipped over dangerously, and she launched herself at the opposite corner until it righted itself.
“It’s coming again,” Desil warned.
She crouched down, clutching her spear.
I’ll pin it down , she thought desperately, grasping at any idea. The shark was so large, she knew it would take a tedious length of time for them to stab it to death, but she could not conceive of any other alternatives.
She clutched the haft of her spear, and when the goblin-shark emerged once more, she was prepared: her spear lashed out and buried itself deep, piercing the shark until blood sprang from its side.
She had hoped this would make it tumble from the sky onto the platform, where she could pin it down. But as though the spear embedded in it were nothing more than an insect bite, the goblin-shark flew overhead unhindered, dragging her along.
Her world toppled over as her feet flew heavenwards and she crashed into the water headfirst. Water pierced her nose, burning a liquid fire down her lungs.
The goblin-shark snapped its jaws at her, but she clung to her spear at an angle just beyond the reach of its fangs.
Going mad with hunger, the shark flipped her round and round.
She focused all her might on maintaining her grip, but her lungs screamed for air.
Instinct begged her to break through the surface to breathe, but terrified sanity warned if she released her spear, the shark would swallow her in a second.
A great grayish-green darkness grew on the fringes of her senses.
A strange sensation in her lungs swelled, her soul fighting with all its might to separate from her flesh.
Mind and body tore apart, a tree savagely prized by its roots from earth, her existence vanishing where flesh drowned.
The divine were calling her to flee the mortal world— ride the white wind, child of Kilinor .
Her hand slipped, and the world came to a halt.
The water was painless.
She could not yet breathe, but there was no need to. She lingered in the realm between life and death, the white stretched-out plane of a single second separating her from the great abyss beyond. All around her, a chorus of gentle murmurs encouraged her to wait for the white wind to carry her away.
It won’t be long, child of Kilinor, until your suffering has come to an end. It won’t be long, child of Kilinor, until it is time to rest.
Something skittered in her gut.
But now is not my time to rest, she thought . This is not how I die. This is not how my story comes to an end. Not now, not today, not till I have done justice to the star I swallowed in that dream—and certainly not for Master Dothilos. I will not let him kill my momentum!
The brief, gray touch of death receded, voices collapsing into silence. She re-rooted her senses, and the world shuddered into motion.
She lunged forward, one hand grabbing back onto the spear, the other fumbling for support.
It brushed against the goblin-shark’s dorsal fin, and she fought the urge to scream as her hand came away bloody, the fin’s serrated edge leaving a jagged wound in her palm.
But even as pain threatened to overcome her, a burst of inspiration struck.
She stared at the fin once more, suddenly recalling one of the earliest books she’d ever stolen, a chef’s guide to exotic cuisine.
The shark jerked violently as a harpoon thrust into its side.
Hands drew Lythlet up, and finally she could breathe again. She drew in air with painful sobs, doubled over on a platform as her eyes and insides burned, coughing violently, spitting out great gobs of water—but she had an idea, and that was all she needed to reinvigorate her.
They did not have to waste time blindly stabbing the beast. She recalled Desil’s mention of a shark-hunting gang.
He had said it was for their meat, and there had been no time to think deeper on it.
But now she recalled from the chef’s guide that Oraanu shark meat was often poisonous, unfit for consumption.
There was only one part worth harvesting, it had explained—the fins.
She groped for the knife at her waist.
But out of the corner of her eye, she saw Desil, dripping wet and coughing, reaching for his baltascar necklace.
“Stay your hand! I know what we must do,” she gasped out in choked, haggard breaths.
He paused, hand falling from the forfeit pendant. “Are you certain?”
She nodded, water-wrecked senses stabilized by newfound confidence.
Relieved she’d stopped him in time, she turned to grin triumphantly up at the podium. You cannot overcome me so easily, match-master . This was no longer a match between her and a goblin-shark; this was between her and Master Dothilos.
Master Dothilos’s sly grin faded, no longer certain he had the upper hand.
She pulled out her knife, daring the sea-beast to come for her again. She knew how to kill it this time.
But out of the corner of her eye, Desil straightened, hardening his face. To her rising alarm, his hand rose once more, arcing toward his sternum in one smooth gesture.
He wouldn’t , she thought, a sickness growing in her gut.
With one effortless movement, the clasp of his pendant snapped, and Desil threw the baltascar to the platform. His boot shattered the glass, and green smoke erupted under his foot, funneling up into the sky.
“Forfeit!” he shouted.
Her eyes widened at the fumes—at what he’d just done.
“Fool!” Her shout was drowned out by the spectators’ furor. The clamor of the arena was deafening as the bulls raged and the bears rejoiced.
With a single word, Desil had undone the momentum they had built. Even if she did not forfeit with him, their reputation had been self-smeared as forfeit-keeners, killing the faith the spectators had in them.
What had she been working for that he could so easily destroy in a single breath?
Master Dothilos snapped his fingers, the singular click cracking like a whip across Lythlet’s eardrums. A chill swept through the audience as the crossbowmen planted around the height of the arena raised their bows, the gleaming tips of their bolts all perfectly aimed at Desil’s head, condemning him with contempt of the arena.
Desil stared at her, nonchalantly ignoring his perilous state. He was clearly expecting her to snap her pendant in unison, growing confused the longer she did nothing.
She turned away, too overwhelmed with pain and frustration.
“You’re hurt,” Desil shouted.
“Have I need for you to tell me of my own pain?” she would have retorted, but her throat stung too much.
On he went, “Forfeit now and we’ll end the match. The physic will take care of you.”
She pointed her knife at Desil, silently commanding him to draw his remaining weapons, a hatchet and a knife.
Desil obeyed with a horrified expression, conceding to resume the fight.
With that, Master Dothilos snapped his fingers once more, and the crossbowmen lowered their weapons, the contempt of the arena drawn to an end.
Even with his weapons out, Desil still pled in hushed tones, “Forfeit, Lythlet. This match is beyond us.”
“It may be beyond you, but it is not beyond me,” she mustered the strength to say. It was too late to unmake his mistake, but she had to salvage their legacy. “As I’d just told you, I’ve figured out what to do.”
“You’re hurt, and we’ve both lost our spears,” he argued.
As if her flesh supported his reasoning, she doubled over, racked by a violent cough, excess liquid spilling past her lips. She needed rest, desperately, and to clear her lungs and bandage her hand, and something along her calf ached— but now is not my time to rest .
One peek into the stands confirmed her suspicions: Master Dothilos was grinning once more, insufferably happy at her misery, at Desil’s forfeit, at that one single moment destroying the goodwill of the spectators.
I can still defeat you , she swore fiercely.
The goblin-shark emerged once more, two spears firmly embedded in its side.
It lunged for her, but she dodged its attack.
Using one of the spears as leverage, she broke its momentum, beaching it on a platform.
She had only seconds; the shark would thrash around until it was back in the water.
The platform trembled violently as her knife flashed in the air.
She brought the blade against the dorsal fin, the one that had sliced through her palm. Back and forth, she sawed desperately, and she was halfway through before the goblin-shark flung itself back into the water.
Lythlet hissed in impatience. She caught Desil’s eye, and he seemed to catch on to what she was doing.
Now you understand , she thought with simmering frustration.
It was easier to track where the goblin-shark was. A thick trail of blood stained the path it cut through the water. Their eyes hunted the pluming red line until it reached the platform Desil stood upon.
Lythlet leaped toward him just in time for the goblin-shark to reappear, no less hungry but all the more clumsy for its injuries.
With Desil tugging one of the spears, the shark was beached on a platform again, and there they set upon finning it.
Desil raised his hatchet and brought it down on the bit of flesh still connecting the dorsal fin to the body, and it came off with two blows.
The shark thrashed itself around, wriggling closer to the water.
Meanwhile, Lythlet knifed through the goblin-shark’s left pectoral fin. Thinner than the dorsal fin, the long chunk of meat soon came away in her hand.
She leaped away in time, narrowly avoiding the bulk of the shark rolling over her as it finally returned to the river.
She made her way back to the cement embankment by the gate, crouching, panting heavily.
Desil joined her a moment later, and they remained still, watching the rapidly bloodying water.
Lythlet raised the pectoral fin overhead, blood dripping past her fingers onto cement. Desil joined her, a single fist presenting the severed dorsal fin to the spectators.
Shaking with shallow pants, Lythlet glared hard at Master Dothilos, damning him for drawing out his verdict.
They knew the truth already: with its major fins hacked off, the goblin-shark could swim no longer, and immobility would bring it death.
The water of the arena, rapidly turning a putrid, inky red, vouched for them.
“Bravo,” was Master Dothilos’s silky congratulations, and a round of shaky applause followed. “I shall concede this as a win.”
Lythlet’s attention faltered after that. The pain she had been suppressing heightened at full, and she turned, stumbling down the corridor to the armory.