He released her, backing off for the next charge. He could hardly contain himself. So alive! She had by now dropped into a defensive stance in readiness for him. He tensed himself to spring.
For a brief, lost moment he wondered if there could have been more than this for the pair of them. That seemed unlikely. We were doomed from the start. Tragedy without regret: it was a very Mantis-kinden concept. Perhaps I am a good Mantis after all.
It was only after he had started running towards her that she shrugged her shoulders and the leather bindings parted where he himself had cut them, and her wings flashed into life.
His blade was still drawn back as they met. He took her sword from her, and her hands grasped him under the arms, and she kicked off.
Not far, because she could not have borne him far. All he needed, though, was six or eight feet added on to his jump and, before the astonishment of 700 Wasps, he found footing on the top of the barrier and killed three soldiers as he landed. Felise had retrieved her sword from him by then, and they began to fight for real.
The soldiers stationed along the perimeter bunched forwards around them, because Felise had taken them straight to the imperial box and she and Tisamon were now less than five yards from the Emperor and pressing forwards. There was a confusion of armoured men trying to block their way amid a clutter of spear-shafts. Spears might be ideal for keeping people confined in the pit but they needed space to be brought to bear. The wretched guards could not step back, for every foot conceded was a foot closer to their lord. Their spear-shafts merely tangled, so they dropped them. Their stings flashed past or between the two fighting slaves, burning only empty air or each other. In such close confines the short blades of Felise’s sword and Tisamon’s claw performed a rigorous test of the guards’ armour and their training, and found them wanting, every weak point penetrated, every seam opened up. In the first few stunned seconds, the nearest Wasp soldiers seemed to unfold outwards from the me?le?e like the petals of a flower.
The soldiers lined up before the imperial seats were now running forwards, drawing their shortswords, shouting for their companions to get out of the way. The soldiers stationed behind Uctebri and the princess were rushing to join them. Even the Emperor’s scribe had his pen-knife in his hand, ready to make a stand against this sudden incursion.
Tynisa stared helplessly, feeling the weight of the chains about her. She stared at her father in his moment of terrible glory. All around, the crowd were shouting, screaming, even cheering, a riot in the making, but her own world seemed to have gone silent. She saw only those two battling figures, continually eclipsed by the Wasp soldiers and then suddenly in sight again. She saw that Felise now had a bloody gash across her ribs, and the weal left by a sting’s near miss along her back. A soldier took his broken spear and managed to jam the point of it into Tisamon’s leg before the Mantis killed him. The wound did not seem to slow Tisamon at all. Tynisa felt tears coursing down her face. He cannot do it. There are too many of them.
She looked over at the hateful pale man beside her and understood that it was not his plan that Tisamon should succeed. Tisamon had already accomplished what he had been intended to do, and Uctebri the Sarcad was taking advantage of it.
He is perfect. Uctebri thrilled at seeing the Mantis weave through the storm of stings and spears and swords, with his jointed claw constantly in motion, cleaving again and again and casting the refuse aside. Beside him the Dragonfly woman was just as swift. He saw her sword dart and dive, her movements small and controlled and utterly savage, lopping at wrists and necks, goring unprotected throats and bellies. Then it got caught in the body of one of her victims and she abandoned it instantly, the claws of her thumbs folding out. Her presence was unexpected, and for a moment he even wondered, Can they…?
But they could not. More soldiers were arriving all the time, pushing their way around the edge of the arena or coasting across it, and if it had been possible for Alvdan to die at the hands of a pit-fighter then he would be dead already. Uctebri realized that he had been caught in the trap he had set for everyone else, staring in horror and fascination at the frenzied knot of bloodshed. He had work to do, and Tisamon and Felise, through their final flurry of skill, had gifted him with exactly what he needed. Nobody was watching him, or even the Emperor. As was proper for a pit fight, they had eyes only for the killing.
He glanced about, seeing that all the guards that had so recently surrounded him were now committed to the fight. With amusement he found that General Maxin, instead of rushing to his lord’s aid, had backed as far as he could go from the fray, eyes fixed on the bloody stalemate that was now seething at the edge of the pit. No danger there.
Now. His hands tightened on the Shadow Box, that had been so hard to come by. He needed power for this, strength beyond his own, strength from a time when men like him were truly strong.
Laetrimae, come forth, he commanded. Come forth to serve me.
She boiled into the air, a writhing smudge of thorns and briars within which hung her human form, pierced and crucified. The eyes she turned on him were a faceted glitter shining with her dispassionate loathing.
‘Kill him,’ Uctebri commanded, not needing to say who. ‘Give me his strength.’
The strength of an Emperor, he sought. Alvdan might underneath it all be simply a mortal man, a ruler merely by accident of birth, but such symbols carried power within magic. The strength of an Emperor could bind an empire; the strength of a brother could bind a sister.
Laetrimae lurched forwards, flickering in the dim air, but Alvdan saw none of it. His hands were locked on to the arms of his throne, as he pressed back into the seat. He stared at Tisamon and, from the midst of the throng, from the eye of that blade-storm, Tisamon stared back at him.
Uctebri saw Laetrimae raise her own mantis claw, composed of steel and chitined flesh. He gripped the Box so tight he felt his nails grind against it.
Tynisa threw herself forwards, crying out, but was heard by nobody, not even Tisamon. They were flagging now, those two fighters. The weight of the Wasps was crushing them. Felise had a bloody wound at the side of her head that had closed one eye. Her hands were steeped in gore up to the elbows, her thumbs constantly stabbing and cutting. Tisamon took a sword-thrust in the side, and Tynisa saw the shock of it wash over his face without leaving a mark. He was shouting now, but no clear words emerged, just a scream that sounded almost triumphant. The Wasps were steadily burying them.
Tynisa cried out again, feeling the physical shock as one desperate Wasp rammed a spear home into Felise’s back. The Dragonfly woman arched backwards, but without the reach to find her tormentor. A sting-shot seared past her, to punch a soldier on the far side of the fight off the wall and hurl him into the pit. Felise drove her thumbs into a soldier’s eyes.
Tynisa kept straining forwards, reaching with manacled hands as though she could somehow stop what was happening and wrench it all to a halt. She watched Felise double over a sword suddenly forced under her ribs. The faces of the Wasps were terrible to behold: exhibiting not hate or rage but sheer heroic courage in giving their lives to keep these monsters away from their Emperor.
Felise was by now on her knees and Tisamon fell alongside her, another sweep of his claw killing the closest assailant cleanly and driving the others back momentarily. He had his other arm about the Dragonfly, though his offhand was a ruin. She was leaning into him limply, and Tynisa knew that she was dead.