3MA

3MA | Chapter 34

34
STEED-JACKED

"Fantasiaaaaaa byatch!!!!!" two muscular jocks scream in unison from their mounted position on top of a flipped over cab, their sleeveless t-shirts bearing the phrases I EAT BLACK LIGHTNING FOR BREAKFAST and I <3 BLACK HEART.

Standing on the steps of Lady of the Lakes Hospital and looking down upon the city, it appears that all eighteen million souls of Camelot are prowling the streets tonight, some dressed as their favorite 3MA fighters, some dressed as the ghosts of fallen heroes of the past, others still, dressed in nothing at all.

A staggeringly large horde of teenagers in purple shirts and bedazzled broomsticks hold up a massive sign that reads: WE STILL BELIEVE. And another: LEMORTE IS A FRAUD: FREE CAMELOT.

I look to the horizon and see they're all marching in the same direction we are. The Amphitheater.

With only three hours until showtime, it's clear we'll never have enough time to maneuver through the foot traffic and get down to the castle, let alone find Excalibur in one of Camelot's thousands of rooms.

Amaris nods to an abandoned Hoversteed thrumming on the street before us. The cop who owns it is busy thrusting his static-baton in a drunk's face. Amaris smirks as she races down the hospital's steps and leap onto the grumbling bike's leather seat. "Get on! Like now!" she calls over her shoulder.

There's no time to express to her what an insufferable knucklehead she is. We file onto the static-fueled bike, looping our arms around each other's waists and waiting with dread for Amaris to execute her plan, or, much more likely, complete lackthereof.

Amaris revs the Hoversteed's thrusters once. A hungry pool of violet static licks at the pavement under the bike like a restless neon shadow. The bike shutters into the air, jolting violently to either side. Amaris pulls back on the handles and we rise into the frozen air, ten feet, twenty. Below us, the owner of the bike raises a clenched fist into the air, cursing our thieving existence, but his voice is lost as the powerful static-engine kicks in, screaming like a possessed horse, and catapults us into the heavens.

My cheeks are pressed back into my face in fleshy ripples as the magic-laced vehicle races high over pedestrian clogged streets, baseball fields crammed with prefight tailgaters, and giant inflatable balloons in the shape of 3MA fighters leading parades up and down the clogged main avenues.

Gray concrete and gleaming steel finally yields to billowing fields of rose-speckled sweet grass and wild forests as the lush, circular expanse of Guinevere Park rips below us in an emerald blur.

Soon, we see the pale white circle of the Amphitheater, embedded like a bullseye in the center of a green dartboard. A village of white tents are already set up around the perimeter of the sunken arena, and long lines of shuffling people snake around the park, waiting to be admitted.

Amaris propels the bike into a very Amaris-like, stomach-twisting descent. We crash into a line of thick pines on the outskirts of the Amphiteather, chitinous branches clawing at our faces like the reaching hands of demons as we race through the dense foliage. The bike belly-flops onto the forest floor in one ungraceful thump. The Hoversteed moans like a downed beast as it slides sideways across the earthen floor, digging a long U-shaped trench into the soil, and coming to a jolting stop as it collides with the trunk of a thousand year old tree. Tossed headlong from the bike like rag dolls, we lay on our backs in a golden pile of fallen leaves, our stuttering breath forming twisted phantoms in the air above us.

For a moment, we all just stare up into the lush canopy of the forest, the pain and shock from the crash temporarily numbed by the web of twittering silverbirds, drifting giant-fireflies, and nimble ice-squirrels that leap from tree to tree in pale blurs; the only remaining remnants of the Camelot that was.

Amaris peels her body from the floor and leads us to the forest edge. "Sorry. Couldn't take the chance of being seen," she says, parting a branch to reveal the chaos of the Amphitheater about a hundred feet from our hiding spot.

"LeMorte's in one of those tents," she says. "That one, I think," she says pointing to the largest tent in the makeshift village.

"How can you tell? Is it that magic-feely thing?" I ask.

Amaris grinds her teeth and nods. "Except with him, it doesn't emanate from him the way it does with you. It's like he sucks magic toward him. Like light into a blackhole."

Amaris rummages through her backpack and extracts four oversized sweatshirts, one for each of us, SAL'S emblazoned across the back. We pull them on and conceal our faces under the hoods.

We join a rustling mob of spectators gathered at the edge of the main staircase that leads down to the mainstage. Below, a massive Octagon sprawls across the limestone stage, the surrounding fence plated in gold.

Floating above the center of the Octagon, twenty feet above the freshly laid canvas, a pin-straight Staff encrusted in shattered gems slowly rotates, like a helicopter propellor cutting through water. My whole life, I had always assumed the Staff was suspended by an unseen wire. Now I know better.

Television screens the size of apartment buildings surround the fighting pit and pepper the field where we stand, offering a live view of the fight for those who can't fit in the arena. An epic neon FANTASIA sign hangs from chains in back of the Octagon, flashing red then white then red, illuminating a barely visible circle of stone on the floor behind the Octagon; the hidden entryway to Camelot castle.

We push our way to the front of the line. A planet-sized guard stands sentry at the Amphitheater's only entryway, his face shielded with a pair of silver aviator sunglasses. A smile creeps across my face. Maybe Amaris is onto something with this fate thing, after all.

Big Boy stands with his arms folded across his barrel chest. I brush my hood up so he can see my face.

"News said you were down for the count," he grumbles at me with a trace of a smile.

"Never trust the media," I say. "We need to get through."

Big Boy grunts. "Supposed to turn your butt in the second I see you. Morris Fisk's orders."

"Taking orders doesn't seem like your thing," I say.

With his eyes concealed behind his mirrored sunglasses, I can't decipher which side he'll take.

Big Boy unlatches the security chain and steps aside. Under his black leather motorcycle jacket, a purple t-shirt peeks through that reads MERLIN'S BOY.

"Always liked your style," I say with a breath of relief.

Big Boy nods his monumental head and pushes back the teeming crowd.

We squeeze past him and rush down the steps of the Amphitheater. With only a few hours left until fight time, the arena is a frenzy of activity, with workmen tugging on pulleys and ropes, teams of cleaners sweeping aisles and running about the space performing last minute tasks. It isn't difficult to slip through the busy staff unnoticed and circle around the back of the Octagon.

Checking that the coast is clear, Amaris bends to a knee and removes the sword earring from her lobe. She inserts it into the microscopic slot in the marble, twisting it in a complex pattern. A slice of limestone slides away with an echoey rumble. We all peer down into total darkness.

It doesn't seem possible that only a month has gone by since the first time I saw Amaris do this. So much has changed since then.

Everything has changed.

As we race down Camelot's stairs through the dark, Morris Fink's words echo through the tunnel.

In a month from now, I think you'll be surprised to find out who you really are.

It could be the only thing he was ever right about.