Fear's Union

Chapter Thirty-Seven

—Anejo—

This would have been daunting in any circumstance, but now... Anejo's very name depended on the outcome of this bout. It was massive. The trouble was that her body wasn't aware of this fact. The noise of the terraces swirled around her, and she gawped. Astonished.

Her opposition betrayed no such nerves. The Lord Governor was striding around; chest pumped out. He was even waving at the crowds.

The arena was vast. It stretched into the sky, reaching up to the gods with spinal surety. The terraces heaved, roaring spectators bouncing with excitement. The colours of the arena were painfully bright, and Mother shone down relentlessly. Her light uniform was saturated with sweat, which wasn't pleasant. This was way beyond her brief duelling experience, and even beyond her dreams. Her legs were like water.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I give you your first bout! And what a fight we have. In one corner, the prophesised saviour of Rhanna's vision, and in the other, the son of the man she murdered. I give you sapling versus deadwood. I give you the Lord Governor of Samal versus the First-Magistra of Ahan. I give you slighted versus slighter. Let the games begin!"

The crowd were stirred into a frenzy, and the cacophony crashed upon her. That didn't help her liquid limbs. Her weapon was heavier than usual, a dead weight, and it shook in her hands. Come on! This sparring weapon was normally like a friend to her, so why did it feel so foreign?

Her opponent was like a charged hound, just waiting to be unleashed. He wore no hood or mask, and she could see all the hatred on his face. It was meant for her. How she dreamed of belittling the arrogant git, but that seemed so far away. She was awed by her surroundings, and he would crush her.

They were alone at the heart of the arena with the referee, an aged man dressed in deep maroon. An old competitor and wise to this place, his ease in the ring was galling. He didn't even seem to register the swelling of the crowd.

The Lord Governor, by contrast, seemed to draw strength from the noise. The traitor closed his eyes, lifted his hands into the air, palms up, and smiled wickedly. Damn him; he was soaking up the atmosphere. She gulped.

"You both understand and acknowledge the rules?" She nodded, as did her opponent. "Then let's begin." This was almost certainly her worst decision ever, and that was saying something.

Her opponent moved forward and offered a begrudging wrist, grimace on his face. But she was paralysed. She didn't move. After a heartbeat, she took his wrist as etiquette dictated, but the gesture was purposefully cold. He didn't object. She went to her side of the engagement ring, and he did the same. The fight space was marked out by a bleached white rope, and they turned to each other, one either side of the circle. She could still see the venom in his gaze.

She wanted to sit, to run, to weep. But she couldn't. She wedged her legs into place so they didn't wobble. That sensation would pass, wouldn't it? She raised her arms, equally wobbly and somewhat independent too. But that wasn't a particular problem because her weapon was like a lead pipe in her hand. Utterly useless. Surely they could not expect her to fight with these amateur tools?

"Engage." There was her answer.

She wasn't ready! The traitor rushed forward and her legs wobbled. He moved his blades elegantly, like she should be doing, but it was hardly fair. She was handling lead pipes. She clumsily blocked, her feet impeding her, and steel on steel reverberated. She had no control over her failing.

She stumbled, falling lamely on her back, arms splayed. The Nadari bastard pounced on her gleefully, and smashed dulled steel upon her unguarded torso. These may be 'dull' weapons, but the weight of steel was the same whether it was edged or not. Memories of the dragon's swipe clawed at her.