I ducked inside and jogged barefoot across the floor. Another moment and I was out of the gates into the Pit. The covers hiding enormous skylights in the roof had been removed in preparation for the championship fight. Moonlight sifted on the sand.
By the Pit, bathed in the gauze shroud of moonrays, Hugh d’Ambray, flanked by Nick and the young fighter, handed a wrapped item to Mart and Cesare.
Ice rolled down my spine. I stopped. The item was long and looked like a sword wrapped in canvas. So that was where the Guards went. He bought them off to make the exchange.
Hugh was no fool. He had seen the fights and he realized we had a decent chance of winning tomorrow. He had decided to even the odds. That would be no ordinary sword.
Cesare’s upper lip wrinkled in a grimace. Mart flashed his teeth at me and the two Reapers melted into the darkness. Hugh d’Ambray looked at me and I looked back at him.
“It’s not surprising that Roland would ally with the rakshasas. They’re an ancient race, dependent on magic. They respect his power,” I said. “It’s not surprising he would use them to weaken the Pack. They’re vicious and sly but not too bright. If they win, they’ll make a much weaker enemy than the shapeshifters. If they lose, the Pack will be bloodied anyway. However, having Hugh d’Ambray pay off the Guards and slink about in the night like a thief to provide the rakshasas with a weapon just before the final fight, that I find surprising. That feels almost like cheating. How very unsavory.”
He strode to me with a short nod. “Walk with me.”
I had to find out what he gave them. Our survival depended on it. I walked next to him. Nick and the other fighter fell behind a few steps. We began making a circle around the fence.
“I like the way you move. Where have we met before?”
“Just out of curiosity, what did you give them?”
“A sword,” he said.
Duh. “It would have to be something very valuable. They view weapons as toys. They melted all of your precious electrum so they could pour it onto the face of one shapeshifter.”
The corners of Hugh’s mouth twitched. He caught the expression and froze it before it could bloom into a grimace, but I saw it. Score one for me.
“So this sword must be very special. Something they probably shouldn’t be trusted with, something that would tip the odds in their favor tomorrow. Is it one of Roland’s personal weapons?”
“I liked what you did with the golem,” he said. “Fast, precise, economical. Good technique.”
“Was it Scourge you gave them?”
The sword he’d given them had a wide blade. It could’ve been Scourge, although I really hoped it wasn’t. Scourge unleashed the kind of magic that decimated armies. No, it had to be something else. A sword that could be used short range with some precision.
“If you hadn’t allied with the wrong side, I could’ve used you,” he said.
“Thank you for not insulting me with an offer.”
“You’re welcome. I do regret that you’ll die tomorrow.”
“And that fact matters to you why?”
He shrugged. “It’s a waste of talent.”
Here he stood, my father’s replacement. Voron had trained him, as he had trained me, although he didn’t get Hugh from birth. Hugh was ten when he started. He was a master swordsman. My father told me he had never seen a more talented fighter. I supposed the acknowledgment of my skill by him was a compliment.
“Why do you serve him?” I asked.
A faint veneer of puzzlement overlaid his features.
I really wanted to know. Voron took him in. Voron made him who he was. Roland’s magic only kept him young—he had the body and face of a man barely older than me, but he had to be close to fifty. He wouldn’t age. None of Roland’s top cadre felt time. It was his gift to those who served him. But surely, that alone wasn’t enough.
“He’s stronger than me. I haven’t found anyone else who could best me.” Hugh studied me. “How often do you take orders from those who are weaker, dumber, and more inept than you?”
My pride stung. “I do so because I choose to.”
“Why not choose to serve a stronger master?”
“Because his vision is warped and I don’t believe in it.”
“His vision is that of a better world.”
“A better world bought with atrocities will be rotten at the core.”
“Perhaps,” Hugh said.
I looked into his eyes. “There won’t be a tower above Atlanta as long as I live.”
“How fortunate for our cause that your life will end tomorrow.” Hugh smiled. He thought me ridiculous and so he should.
“Would you spar with me?” he asked. “We have time. I was generous with the Guards.”
The offer tempted me. Hugh was an innate swordsman, a one-in-a-million fighter. Sparring with him would be as close as I could ever come to sparring with Voron once again. But I had a bout to fight. Injuring me would play into his hands rather nicely. “I don’t have time to give you a lesson.” Chew on that.
I walked away.
“I wonder how fast you are,” he said to my back.
The blond swordsman struck at me from behind. I dropped under the blur that was his lunge and thrust low, driving Slayer into the gut, from the side up. The saber punctured the stomach with a loud pop and slid deep, all the way into the pressurized aorta. It took all of my skill to execute the thrust. Hugh had gotten my goat after all.
I pushed the blond off my sword. Slayer’s blade emerged, coated in scarlet. He sagged to the floor. Inside him, the blood geysered out of the aorta. A normal human would be dead already. But the blond too had the benefit of Roland’s magic. It would take him a minute or two to die.
I looked at Hugh. His face betrayed nothing, but his eyes widened. I knew exactly what was going through his head. It was the same thing that went through my mind when I saw a feat of expert bladework: could I have done that?
Our eyes met. The same thought zinged between us, like an electric charge: one day we would have to meet sword to sword. But it wouldn’t be today, because tomorrow I had to fight the Reapers. I had to break it off.
“You threw him away. Sloppy, Hugh.”
He took a step back. Too late I realized I’d used Voron’s favorite rebuke. It had just rolled off my tongue. Shit.
I left. They didn’t follow me.
IN THE MORNING THE SHAPESHIFTERS MEDITATED. Then we practiced in the gym. Jim had given us a short briefing. “The Reapers fight like samurai: one on one. There are no tactics involved. It just breaks down into individual fights. They like flash, but they are efficient.”
We all had a job to do. Mine was simple: Mart. I didn’t want Mart. I wanted Cesare. But Jim’s strategy made sense and I was going to follow it. I’d get a chance against Cesare. I wanted to kill him entirely too much to be denied.
But none of the tactics, none of the strategy, mattered until I knew what sort of blade Hugh had given to the Reapers. He had had ample opportunity to transfer the blade to the rakshasas before last night. He knew they wouldn’t be able to resist using the sword, and he didn’t want its power known until today.
Roland had made several weapons. All were devastating. Just thinking on it made me grit my teeth. He must’ve given Hugh the order to assure the rakshasas win at any cost. I wondered if it grated on Hugh.
At two minutes till noon we lined up and marched into the Pit. Sunshine poured on us through the skylights. The shapeshifters came out in warrior form, Raphael included, with Curran in the lead. Andrea carried a crossbow and enough firearms to take on a small country. Not satisfied with her own carrying capacity, she had loaded Dali with spare ammo.
We crossed the floor of the Arena and stepped onto the sand.
Across from us seven Reapers stood in two rows. My gaze skipped over them and fastened on Mart in the center. His sword was sheathed. Damn it. What is it? What did he give you?
I surveyed the rest. Cesare on Mart’s left. The huge rakshasa, still wearing his human skin, carried two khandas: heavy, three-foot-long double-edged swords. I’d handled khandas before; not my cup of tea: too heavy and oddly sharpened.