steel and fire 03 - dance of steel

by rivet, jordan

  “We’ll let you know as soon as Daz gives us a date for the big move, my queen,” Oat said. “We’ll ask him to hurry.”

  “Thank you.”

  Oat and Yuri saluted and sauntered out. Kel hung back a bit and moved closer to her instead of following his friends out the door. The cats still rolled around on the floor, and the furlingbird rustled its feathers irritably, but a sense of quiet descended on the room. Somehow, Sora felt calm in Kel’s presence. Safe.

  “Your Highness,” Kel said. “I wanted to ask if you’ve had any more problems with Her Giant Horribleness?”

  He reached out to scratch the head of the cat purring comfortably against her shoulder. The sensation made her think of lazy afternoons spent with her little sister, playing with the kittens in this very room. She felt years older now. She hoped Selivia had been spared that. She deserved to enjoy her youth while she could.

  “Lima has stopped with the physical violence,” Sora said, “but she’s also not involving me in meetings as much as she used to.”

  “Is that bad?”

  “I get my best information when she puts me in front of people who need to see me acting the queen. She has either decided she doesn’t want to risk me speaking out of turn, or she doesn’t need me as much anymore. Neither possibility is particularly heartening. I can’t have all my information streams drying up.”

  “I had a hand in that, I’m afraid,” Kel said slowly. “We had another small chat after our last encounter.”

  “What?”

  “I may or may not have threatened her within an inch of her evil old hide if she ever touched you again.”

  A bout of conflicting feelings rushed through Sora. She was grateful Kel was trying to protect her, but it put them both in a more-precarious position. Lima would know he was loyal to her. And if the Ruminors decided they didn’t need a figurehead after all, she’d be in even bigger trouble. But something else wasn’t right.

  “Wait, you threatened Lima Ruminor, and she didn’t fire you then and there?”

  “Nope.” Kel shrugged, as if the prospect of being on the bad side of the second-most-powerful person in the kingdom didn’t bother him.

  “But why? What’s her angle?”

  “Not sure. Maybe she’s afraid I’ll tell people what she has been up to. I gather she’s not popular.”

  “Hmm.” Sora didn’t think that explanation fit. Lima could be biding her time, planning revenge. That was her specialty. “You need to be careful.”

  “Always am, my queen.” Kel grinned and gave the cat one more scratch, his hand brushing Sora’s hair as he pulled it back. “Well, I’d better go wipe the floor with my dueling partners.” He offered her an elaborate bow and turned for the door.

  “Kel!” Sora said before he disappeared.

  “Yes, my queen?”

  She blushed, feeling shy as he met her eyes.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, Sora.”

  And he closed the door behind him.

  Sora shook her head, fighting down the army of butterflies cavorting in her stomach. This was not the time for that. Kel protected her because he was a decent man, not because he had any interest in her. She had never been under any illusions about her alluring qualities. But she couldn’t help looking up at the door a few times as she sat back down on the floor, just in case it should open again.

  No, she should focus on the plan. Attacking the core of the Lantern Maker’s power was a bold move. But if Rafe was dangerous now, who knew what he could become if he completed his mysterious Work? They had to stop him before the consequences stretched to the edges of the continent. And she knew her own days were numbered, no matter how much Kel tried to protect her. She had to make those days count.

  35.

  Steel Pentagon

  SIV didn’t know where to look as they rode into Pendark. It was especially magnificent after traveling through the Darkwood for days, staring at nothing but bland stretches of leafless trees. The Darkwood wasn’t nearly as spooky and mysterious as its name implied. The skeletal trees let through plenty of light at this time of year. Dead leaves crackled underfoot, and unfamiliar creatures sang in the barren branches. It grew warmer as they made their way south, and Siv could hardly believe winter was still in full swing up in Vertigon.

  After three monotonous days, they emerged from the Darkwood and descended a gentle slope to the lowlands. As they left the musky smell of dead leaves behind, Siv caught his first good whiff of the salt-tinged coastal air. The great city-state of Pendark spread before them, nestled against the coast of the Black Gulf. Farther out, the Gulf opened into the vast, rolling expanse of the Bell Sea.

  Pendark was a swampy land, its only city built around the delta of a muddy, slow-moving river. The border between the Black Gulf and the marshland was hard to distinguish where the delta fanned out around the city’s structures. The Waterworkers had spent years directing and redirecting the flows of the delta into canals to carve out their territory. Little islands had been created all over the city, some stretching out into the gulf. Waterworkers controlled the islands, and they fiercely protected their domains. Their king kept a tenuous hold on his own island, his power over the city-by-the-sea little more than ceremonial. The Waterworkers were the true powers in Pendark.

  They were also notoriously territorial and violent. Siv had read some dramatic (possibly exaggerated) stories set in the city. Frequent civil wars and skirmishes broke out between the powerful Waterworkers, who constantly tried to expand their domains. All Pendarkans were supposed to be violent, come to the think of it—and fiercely competitive. No wonder the bloody Dance of Steel was the most-popular sport.

  The Pendarkans might have destroyed each other long ago if not for the fabulous trade opportunities offered by their seaside location. The chance to earn serious coin outweighed the desire for victory in every contest. Traders sailed from across the Bell Sea and into the welcoming arms of the Black Gulf day and night. Once in Pendark, they hawked their wares to merchants who transported their goods all across the continent.

  Soole had sea access too, inspiring more competition between the two lands. But while Pendark fostered trade from across the Bell Sea alone, the Soolen Peninsula also bordered the Ammlen Ocean. The Soolens enjoyed exclusive access to goods from the East Isles. This was the primary source of income for the larger of its two port cities. As much as the Pendarkans resented Soole’s supremacy in this area, more than enough ships arrived from the Bell Sea for them to thrive.

  Siv had read a lot about Pendark, but the most-elaborate travel accounts were nothing compared to riding into its muddy streets for the first time. Colorful flags waved from every rooftop, representing whichever Waterworker currently held sway in that area. The salt-air smell mixed with the fetid aromas of mud and moss. Hawkers shouted at them from all sides, offering exquisite carvings, rare seafood, and lucrative trade deals. Women waved from houses on stilts, advertising their own kind of wares. A large percentage of the buildings in the city perched on stilts. Some had stables on the ground beneath them, while others were built directly over the mud-brown river, complete with docks for canal boats underneath. Floods threatened the city several times a year, and the Pendarkans had gotten tired of rebuilding their homes. The Gulf actually protected the city from the worst of the storms on the Bell Sea, but the warring Waterworkers were storm enough.

  The road from the Darkwood extended all the way through the city to the Black Gulf. They would have to cross several bridges from island to island to reach the true coast. Siv could hardly wait to dip his feet in the sea for the first time. Kres had a different destination in mind for them, though.

  “Let’s stop to watch a solo match or two,” he said, heeling his horse in between Siv and Latch, who had been too occupied by the sights to notice they were riding side by side. “No sense in wondering what the Pentagon is like so much that you lose your nerve when it’s your turn to do battle.”

  “We’v
e both fought to the death before,” Latch said.

  “Yeah, it’ll probably be easier than our average afternoons have been lately,” Siv said. “I’m not nervous.”

  He liked the idea of stopping by a match, though. He did want to see what a Steel Pentagon looked like before he fought in one. Their first Dance of Steel was scheduled for the very next day. He wiped his palms on his trousers, no doubt damp from the swampy air. He definitely wasn’t nervous.

  Kres chuckled and led the way to a small dock where they could tie up their horses for a price. A scrawny old man took their coins and handed Kres a pair of oars that had seen better days. The team loaded into a rickety, flat-bottomed boat and rowed across the murky river to a small island. Kres explained that a few of the islands in the city of Pendark had been set aside for use as Steel Pentagons, often after the warring of the Waterworkers had rendered them useless for other purposes—or not worth fighting over.

  They scrambled out onto the soft earth as a horrible scream filled the air. Shouts and jeers followed. Siv and Latch exchanged wide-eyed glances as they approached the fighting ground.

  He had imagined halls, like the vast King’s Arena where the biggest dueling tournaments in Vertigon took place. But the Steel Pentagons were open-air spaces no more than fifty paces across. The one in the center of this island was on the smaller side, perhaps twenty paces across, with a few barrels and logs scattered across it to form obstacles. Spectators pressed in around the five sides of a wooden barrier, making bets and cheering for their favorites. The rough-looking men drummed on the railing or propped their elbows on it, eating shriveled squids on sticks. The smell of blood and sweat mixed with the fusty aroma of swampy water and mud. The Dance was a muggy, intimate sport—both for the spectators and the competitors.

  Fiz elbowed through the crowd, using his bulk to secure a spot for them near the Pentagon. Siv’s blood pounded in his ears as he squeezed between a pair of grimy spectators to get a better look. The press and the shouts and the stink heightened his excitement. At last he was going to find out what the fuss was all about.

  The first thing he saw was a man being dragged out of the arena. In two pieces. Siv had killed a few men by now, but this? This was new.

  The victor strutted back and forth across the bare ground, holding aloft a broadsword edged with blood. He was as big as Fiz, but where Fiz was a cuddly blond bear, this fellow was pure monster. He shouted his own praise so loud the veins bulged in his thick neck. Drops from a cut on his muscular arm left red pools in his muddy footprints as he stomped across the Pentagon, gloating over his victory.

  The crowds hollered, hoarse and vicious. Some called for the fellow to cut his defeated opponent into even tinier pieces. Siv had known his fair share of rabid sporting fans, but these Pendarkans were a whole new breed.

  A scrawny man wearing a mud-spattered tunic hurried to the center of the Pentagon and hollered, “That’s the third victory this week for Hadrachia the Hammer! Let’s hear it, friends!”

  The crowds roared as Hadrachia accepted a coin purse from the scrawny man and hauled himself over the edge of the wooden barrier to exit the Pentagon. His fans instantly closed in on him, so only his clean-shaven head was visible above the throng.

  “Now then,” called the scrawny announcer. “Who’s next?”

  “I will fight!” shouted a short, powerfully built man from across the arena.

  “Well, if it isn’t the Murderer of Mud Island!” called the announcer. “Do we have a challenger?”

  “The matches aren’t set in advance?” Siv asked Kres, leaning in close so he could be heard over the hollers of the crowd.

  “Not at a gutter fight like this,” Kres said. He had the wild glint in his eyes that Siv had come to recognize as a frenzy bordering on bloodlust. He should remember that Kres was Pendarkan. He shared the insane competitiveness for which the land was famous.

  “We have a set match tomorrow as part of the league,” Gull added. “These bruisers fight for prize purses wherever they can.”

  “Now, shut up and watch,” Kres said. “Plenty of the gutter fighters compete with us in the league. You’ll learn a thing or two.”

  Siv pressed up against the barrier as the Murderer of Mud Island fought a taller Soolen fellow who had answered his challenge. The latter attracted jeers from the crowd as he advanced to the center of the pentagon and drew a saber. Soole wasn’t growing any more popular as the news of the invasion spread. The Soolen fighter ignored the insults as he raised his blade.

  “All ready!” the announcer called. “Let us dance!”

  With a savage cry, the Murderer of Mud Island launched himself forward, his saber a whirlwind of steel. The Soolen challenger stumbled over a log obstacle as he danced back. The crowds roared for blood. He managed to find his feet, though, and met the Murderer stroke for stroke.

  “These guys are fast,” Siv said.

  “You haven’t seen anything yet, lad,” Kres said.

  “I fought the Mud Island Murderer back in my saber days,” Fiz said. “He’s vicious in the pen, but he’s not a bad fellow to have a drink with afterwards.”

  “If you live until then,” Latch muttered.

  Despite the Murderer’s impressive speed, the Soolen fighter clinched the victory. Unlike the previous combatant, he didn’t kill his opponent. He executed a brilliant feint and ended the fight with his blade against his opponent’s neck. The jeers turned to adoration in an instant.

  “We have a new victor!” the announcer called. “Let’s hear it for the Rockeater of Soole!”

  The crowds roared, all animosity toward the Soolen fighter forgotten. Siv glanced at Latch, but he didn’t seem particularly interested in the success of his countryman. If anything, he looked a little green.

  “Mud Island might need to get itself a new murderer,” the announcer said with a chuckle. “Now, who’s next?”

  Two fighters called out their intentions to fight at the same time, and there was a brief, intense struggle between them over who had the right of way. One fighter knocked the other cold with his fist before they even made it into the pentagon. The fist-happy fellow sauntered to the middle, strutting as though he’d already scored an official victory. Too bad he’d miss out on a prize purse for that move.

  The fellow was whip-thin, with bulging eyes and long hair hanging lankly around his sharp-bladed shoulders. His weapon of choice was a long-handled knife with a curved blade.

  “Looks like the Pendarkan Panviper is back for more,” shouted the announcer. “Who will challenge him?”

  “I know who I want to fight today,” the Panviper said. “I seen just the man in the crowd.”

  “Have some kind of personal grudge, eh? All right, then. Who is it?”

  “Today I challenge The Master, Krestian March!” The Panviper whipped his knife around and pointed it at his chosen opponent. He smirked. “Guess he’s back from his winter vacation.”

  “Kres March?” The name spread quickly through the crowd, and all heads turned toward Siv’s companions. Soon Gull and Fiz’s names were being repeated back through the crowd too, the voices eager and admiring. So the team had a reputation.

  “Can’t the bastard give me a chance to rest my boots before another damn challenge?” Kres muttered.

  “Well?” the announcer approached them on the other side of the wooden barrier. “Do you accept the challenge, Master March?”

  “No, I do not,” Kres said. “I just arrived. The Panviper can cool his blood.”

  “You refuse to fight? I name you a coward!” the Panviper shouted, his face going purple.

  “That’s hardly the first time you’ve done that,” Kres said. “Words, words. Nothing more.”

  “Are you turning down the Dance?” the announcer asked.

  “Can’t you just teach him a quick lesson,” Gull said, fingering the hilt of her blade. “The fool deserves it.”

  Kres sighed in a manner that suggested the whole charade was calculated. “I d
aresay he does. Very well.” Kres raised his voice and addressed the Panviper and the announcer. “I accept the challenge on behalf of the newest member of my squad. The boy’s a bit green, but I can’t be bothered to fight the Panviper again. Meet Siv the Slicer.”

  Then, to Siv’s utter surprise, Kres grabbed him by the collar and heaved him over the barrier. Siv barely managed to get his feet under him before he hit the mud. When he regained his footing, he stood inside the Steel Pentagon.

  “Uhh, Kres?” Fiz said.

  “What? Nothing like a quick gutter match to rid the boy of first-Dance jitters,” Kres said. “Don’t forget to draw your knife, lad.”

  Siv stared numbly as the scrawny announcer approached him. The shouts of the crowd crashed around him like thunder.

  “Welcome to the Steel Pentagon, Siv the Slicer!” the announcer cried, grabbing him by the arm and yanking him toward the center of the fighting ground. Siv had to step nimbly to avoid the obstacles in the mud. His brain hadn’t quite caught up with what was happening yet. “That’s a fine scar there. This fellow has seen a fight or two, folks!”

  “If he got cut up, he can’t be particularly good,” said the Panviper.

  Guffaws spread through the crowd. Siv didn’t bother to point out that the Panviper had three times as many scars as he did. He was too busy fighting down the nerves that had finally barreled into him with the force of a charging cullmoran. This was not how he had expected the day to go at all.

  “Fine,” the Panviper sneered. “I will fight you, but know that you stand for Kres March’s honor this day. And I shall destroy you!”

  Siv glanced back at the squad. It would be a shame to damage their reputation by falling in his first fight. Latch looked distinctly relieved that he hadn’t been sent into the pen as the second-newest member of the team. Fiz gripped the wooden barrier so hard it might crack, and Gull was chewing her lip, making it go white. Only Kres didn’t seem nervous. He watched Siv face down his first pen fight without emotion or any particular signs of distress. Maybe he should take it as a compliment that Kres wasn’t afraid Siv would lose to the Panviper. That, or Kres didn’t care whether he lived or died.