‘In the time of the Gods,’ Garald started, ‘the mortals held trials for the Indecim’s favour. The scriptures tell us that Aerulus One-Father didn’t approve, but that Belios encouraged the mortals to test their mettle against one another, and so the Challenge was born. Those obelisks represent the Seven Daughters of Belios. In ancient times, his daughters formed a ring around combatants; if one of the warriors touched a daughter, she’d kill him on the spot. Pilgrims, warriors, travellers from all over came to compete.’
‘Well, if you’re gonna have a pissing contest, might as well do it in front of the world.’
Garald burst into giggles. ‘You’re not like other girls, are you?’
You don’t know the half of it…
‘So, what’s the point?’ Serena asked. ‘Why fight to the death?’ She’d seen plenty of arm-wrestling competitions back in the Raincatcher’s guild house—and some literal pissing contests—but this fight wasn’t to settle a grudge or to impress a crewmate.
‘These days, Father simply sends condemned men in,’ said Garald. ‘Rhis’ prisons are overcrowded with dissenters and traitors to the government—the Challenge provides the people with entertainment and reminds them of both the Gods’ power and my father’s.’
‘He forces people to fight? For entertainment?’
Garald shifted in his chair. ‘Um…’
Serena waited, but that was all the argument Garald mustered.
‘I’d like to leave,’ she said.
‘Not yet. Father has… Suspicions about Mathildé. In a day or two, we’ll get to the bottom of it—but until then, you are our honoured guest.’
Serena’s arms drew in tighter. Fancy way of saying ‘prisoner’.
King Arnault stood, and the crowd fell silent.
‘Our contender,’ a dissonant, disembodied voice boomed, grating like a flaying blade across Gallows’ nerves, ‘is a former Dalthean soldier and mercenary.’ A chorus of booing almost drowned the announcer’s voice out. ‘Tyson “the Hangman” Gallows!’
The wind lashed as soon as Gallows stepped out onto the suspended cage. Tension and excitement flowed from the audience in waves. Gallows had killed before, he couldn’t dispute that—but never for sport.
The crowd stood up in cresting rows, much closer to the arena floor than Gallows liked. He passed beneath the suspended ignium contraption, shielding his eyes from its glare. The amber in its glass swirled like rolling fire.
He scanned the crowd to pick out Arnault. He saw the whites in the crowd’s eyes, heard the manic fury in their screams. Why did he choose me?
When Gallows found the king, he wasn’t sitting alone—Helena tal Ventris sat in what would’ve been Queen Runa’s chair.
Well, of course they’re working together.
The king’s hair was as white as cotton wool, and brown spots marred his once handsome features. A tri-braided beard hung down to his chest, its tips dyed red, as was the custom among the Ryndaran raiders of old. Like Ventris’ fingers.
A breathing mask covered the lower half of the king’s face; it gleamed like silver in the light and suited his shimmering robes and single-tined crown. His eyes were rimmed with crimson; whether it was the same pigment as in his beard or all natural, Gallows couldn’t tell.
Arnault swept his arms out. Silence fell over the crowd, and when the king spoke, it was with the discordant announcer’s voice—a strange, dissonant thrum like something inside the king chorused the words a split-second after him. ‘King Arnault welcomes Rhis’ own steel-eyed warrior: Thruzgaz Blood-Dancer!’
The gate at the other end of the arena screamed open, and from the gaping black mouth of a tunnel, Thruzgaz Blood-Dancer emerged.
He marched towards Gallows and halted beneath the ignium orb, its light washing over the bone-white wolf-mask on his face like bloodied war paint. He stood around five foot five, a good deal shorter than Gallows, and wore a black robe, mismatched metal greaves on his legs, and bracers on his forearms.
Unlike Gallows, Thruzgaz didn’t take deep breaths or dance on the balls of his feet. Strange red symbols had been painted across his leather-armoured chest, but Gallows didn’t recognise the language.
What he did recognise, however, was the Idari bloodspear in the blood-dancer’s hands—and the row of throwing knives in his belt.
‘Hey!’ Gallows called to the woman in the armoury. ‘You said we get one weapon!’
She cupped her gnarly hands around her mouth: ‘Champion gets one for every opponent he’s killed!’
Gallows’ fingers whitened around the hilt of his sword. Thommo’s assault still ached in his head, and he sensed the crowd’s hatred of him. So much for sportsmanship.
Across the arena, Arnault’s face lit up. ‘By the command of King Arnault tal Ryn-Ståljern of Ryndara, the Anointed of Belios, I deem this Challenge… Worthy of the Gods!’
The numerals on the obelisks flared, and the crowd screamed.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Thruzgaz’s spear flicked like the tongue of a viper.
Gallows snapped back, the air tremoring in the spear’s wake. He kept his distance—his sword didn’t have anything close to the reach of the spear.
The blood-dancer attacked in a steady rhythm: Step-step-thrust, step-step-thrust. Gallows dodged, deflecting the spear’s tip away only when he had to.
Thruzgaz mixed it up; he feinted left then right, before poking the spear at Gallows in a dizzying rush. It licked the side of Gallows’ sword arm, drawing blood. The crowd rejoiced.
Gallows backed away, heart racing in his chest and sweat slicking his palms. His sword trembled in his hand, and the clattering cage floor felt flimsy beneath his feet.
Thruzgaz shot forward and swept the spear from side to side in wide arcs. Gallows dived away, but with lightning speed, the blood-dancer’s blade sliced Gallows’ side and scraped against his ribs.
The crowd jeered and hurled insults at Gallows. Blood slicked the inside of his clothes—and the top numeral of an obelisk faded.
Thruzgaz didn’t stop; he spun, shearing the spear tip across the steel floor like a reaper scything wheat. Gallows leapt over it—and the butt of the spear thundered into his face.
Blood filled Gallows’ mouth. He stumbled back, desperate against the blood-dancer’s onslaught, the din from the arena flooding his senses.
Another numeral disappeared.
Frantic, Gallows darted at Thruzgaz, and—when the spear came close—ducked beneath, slicing the blood-dancer’s leg and drawing up behind him. Gallows didn’t waste the opportunity to stab him in the back.
That drew a louder jeer from the crowd, but Gallows was a Dustwynd boy—if your enemy had a weakness, you damn well exploited it.
Thruzgaz spun, injured but alive, no blood leaking from his wound.
The hell?
The tip of the spear almost sliced Gallows in two, but Gallows kept close to negate its reach and struck whenever he had an opening. He kept changing the axis of the battle, side-stepping and switching sides, slashing and slicing at Thruzgaz.
But the blood-dancer didn’t care. His spear flicked out again, snagging on Gallows’ left shoulder.
Gallows screamed, and the audience sounded pleased.
He retreated, fatigue setting in and blood oozing from his wounds. Thruzgaz drove him further and further back, maintaining the same level of ferocity as Gallows grew weaker.
He had to take a risk, or he was dead.
Another set of numerals disappeared—they were fading at different rates, and before Gallows could wonder why, the tip of the nearest obelisk glowed red—and a jet of flaming igneus spurted out like dragons’ breath.
Gallows dived away, heat searing the air behind him.
When he got to his feet, he saw Thruzgaz engulfed in flames.
But still he marched towards Gallows.
The fire didn’t slow the warrior down—his spear danced, painting figure-eights beneath the glare of the ignium orb. All Gallows could do was run.<
br />
The numerals on another obelisk disappeared—and this time, it launched a series of crossbow bolts in random directions.
One scored the side of Gallows’ head.
Spinning, he hit the steel mesh floor face-first, the cold bite of Rhis’ wind doing little to balm the burning pain. The crowd jeered him, chanting the blood-dancer’s name over and over.
His entire body aching, Gallows got to his feet and raised his blade.
Thruzgaz marched, flames coiling around his leather armour and hood, burning it away.
Then he ripped the wolf mask from his face, and Gallows understood why Thruzgaz refused to bleed.
He’s a Wraith.
He’s getting his ass kicked.
Serena’s stomach squirmed, but she couldn’t tear her gaze away. The glee in Garald’s eyes, the baying of the crowd around her—and the man wreathed in flames.
She’d seen that happen to a man before.
Smithy stumbling out of the Spire, engulfed in fire… His skin melting, his screams tearing through the air…
And just like the deaths of her crewmates, Serena was powerless to stop it.
‘Miss Alisabeth,’ Captain Thorir began, ‘if you do not care to watch, I can have a word in the king’s ear?’
Serena shrank deeper into her seat. ‘No, no… It’s fine.’
I’m not powerless—I can control the siren-song. Just a little… I can use it just a little. Just enough to save Gallows.
Sourness filled her throat and the din of the audience resounded inside her head, but Serena focused. Lightning bolts ran through her arms—strong, clear, forming an invisible, near-tangible weapon in her palms.
Like puppet strings growing from her fingertips, she reached out to King Arnault, reached into his head…
Stop this—stop it now… Stop it before—
But something blocked her. Serena tried again, her muscles tensing from the effort.
Something inside Arnault pushed the siren-song back.
How…?
Gallows spun to the floor, exhausted and bleeding. The sight filled Serena’s veins with ice water. Garald said something but she couldn’t hear him, couldn’t hear the noise of the crowd.
‘He’s going to die,’ she whispered.
‘Yes,’ Garald started, ‘it can be a touch grim—’
‘Shut up.’
Garald looked like he’d been slapped. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Shut the hell up.’
Serena swallowed the bile in her mouth, and clenched her fists.
Gallows dodged another thrust and avoided the Wraith’s back-swing, twisting away at the last second.
Flames spurted from obelisks, heralded by a sickening, guttural growl, like the roar of a great beast. Pain and exhaustion weakened him. One mistake, and he’d die.
Thruzgaz arced the spear around—the blade missed but the haft struck Gallows in the ribs. He crumpled to the ground and twisted onto his back in time to see Thruzgaz move in for the killing strike.
With one arm, the blood-dancer hammered the spear down. Gallows scrambled back, the spear tip piercing the mesh floor at Gallows’ groin.
Then Wraith tried to wrench it free, but the tip of the spear was caught.
Gallows rolled, got to his feet and whipped his shortsword at Thruzgaz’s wrist, slashing the tendons and rendering his arm useless.
Thruzgaz tried to prise the spear free with his good hand, but Gallows didn’t give him a chance—he darted forward, the tip of the shortsword directed at the Wraith’s milky eye, ready to thrust it into his brain—
Thruzgaz snapped his head back. Gallows’ sword buried into the blood-dancer’s pallid face, punching through teeth.
Brown blood oozed from the wound; Thruzgaz let go of the spear and grabbed Gallows, headbutting him once, twice, and kicking him in the chest.
Gallows flew back, pain erupting inside. He didn’t have much fight left in him.
But now Thruzgaz was injured and he’d lost his bloodspear—Gallows had a fighting chance.
He rounded on the Wraith, slashing and slicing dead skin into ribbons.
The Wraith reached out and picked Gallows up with his good hand and tossed him halfway across the arena, sending his sword clattering away.
The crowd cheered loud enough to crack the sky.
More so, when Thruzgaz peeled a throwing knife from his belt.
Gallows retreated, but he wasn’t quick enough. Spinning through the air like a pinwheel, a throwing knife plunged into his shoulder. He avoided the second by a hair’s width, listening to it sing as it screamed past his ear.
He was running on empty—the crowd knew it and the Wraith knew it. Hell, Gallows knew it—he just refused to believe it.
Like the sputtering sparks of an airship’s ignition sequence, Serena’s siren-song refused to ignite.
Fresh waves of fear and horror swept over her—the memory of Smithy dying before her, his screams ripping through the night. Dixon, too—and Fitz, Marrin, Kirivanti, and everyone else who’d died so that she could escape Dalthea.
They’d all died for nothing.
And, in front of hundreds of people drunk on bloodlust, it was going to happen again. Stupid girl, stupid—
No. That’s Jozef talking—it was always Jozef who told me I was weak, and stupid.
The muscles in Serena’s arms tightened.
But I’m not.
She wouldn’t let Gallows down—she wouldn’t let the grief over the people she’d lost weaken her—she’d use it to strengthen her.
Gallows rolled forward, avoiding a jet of fire and another throwing knife. Pushing his body well past its limit, he retrieved his sword—and, at the last moment, used it to send bat another knife away.
The crowd commended him for that.
Great—two seconds from death, and now they like me.
Thruzgaz marched to his spear and stomped the steel mesh away, yanking it free. The plating squealed and broke away from the arena floor, spinning down to the streets below and leaving a gap.
Thruzgaz raised his weapon. The weapon’s tip was bent, but it still sharp enough.
Gallows kept his distance. His lungs burned. Blood and sweat made his skin slick, and it was an effort just to stand.
The two warriors circled the gap in the floor. The spear danced in front of Gallows, daring him to deflect it—daring him to stop concentrating on his footing.
With a growl, the obelisks recharged.
Gallows had one idea—one desperate, dangerous idea.
If he couldn’t kill the Wraith, the fall sure as hell would.
Thruzgaz lunged again, the tip of his spear thrusting over the gap.
Throwing his sword to the side, Gallows grabbed the haft of the spear with two hands and pulled.
Even one-handed, the Wraith was strong.
But Gallows brought him closer to the edge of the gap—just one more step and Thruzgaz would plummet, one more step—
The floor beneath Gallows peeled away, and Thruzgaz let go.
Gallows tilted back and dropped through the gap.
The spear straddled the breach in the cage floor, holding Gallows in place. He hung, suspended above the City of Steel, legs flailing and blood rushing in his head.
Thruzgaz loomed over him. The obelisks fell dim and silent, but the arena erupted, anticipating the kill.
Then there was nothing left for Gallows to do but close his eyes.
Serena stifled a scream as Gallows dropped through the hole. The spear bridged the gap; she watched Gallows cling to it, thrashing in the whipping wind.
No time.
The song plunged towards Thruzgaz’s head. His mind gave no resistance, but that wasn’t the problem; unlike everyone else Serena had enthralled, there was nothing for her to grab onto. Myriel, tal Nyrsson, Valentine, even that bastard Roarke—she’d felt resistance but worked through it. It was like picking a lock; the siren-song felt around for components and pathways before finding something to latch ont
o. She didn’t understand it; she only knew when it worked.
But Thruzgaz was different—no resistance meant there was nothing to ‘catch’—and with nothing to catch, she couldn’t steer his mind, couldn’t control him. It was like trying to grasp bubbles.
But Thackeray’s whole plan was to use me to command an army of these things.
She exerted more power, more than she’d intended. Already she felt her strength sapping. She’d pay for it later, but right now, Gallows needed her.
The wind tugged at Gallows, threatened to pull him down into oblivion. The seconds crawled by.
Thruzgaz towered above him and raised a foot.
The temptation to let go—to deny Thruzgaz the kill—nestled in Gallows’ gut.
But then the blood-dancer did something unexpected—he set his foot down and bent down.
With his one good hand—jittery and trembling though it was—he clasped the haft of the spear—and lifted.
The warrior wasn’t strong enough to lift Gallows all the way up, but it was enough.
Gallows placed an aching palm onto the cage floor and pushed, the mixture of relief and terror making him want to scream and laugh at the same time.
The arena turned silent. Gallows’ own breathing resounded in his ears. Like a moment frozen in time, the crowd kept quiet and the Wraith stood still.
Gallows didn’t waste the gift.
He collected his sword and drove it through Thruzgaz’s eye, feeling the meat of his brain. The Wraith twitched and crumpled to the ground.
Exhausted and confused, Gallows fell to his knees.
And across the arena, King Arnault watched him.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
DALTHEA VIATOR
Dustwynd LOST! Bloodlung RAMPANT! Hundreds DEAD!
Experts Warn of Sandstorms From Obsidian Sandlands—is Fallon Prepared?
Wrath of Storms Page 18
