She circled the little man with newfound respect, trying to gauge his next move, probing for a weakness in his stance. Then the wretch was in again, like quicksilver. Aurian dodged, swinging her own blade by instinct, feeling the draft of his sword’s tip against her thigh. There was a ripping noise, and the hem of the ridiculous fighting kilt that the gladiators wore was flapping in tatters against her bare skin. Again she felt the warm, telltale trickle of blood as she backed away. Not serious this time. A mere graze, it stung, no more. But her own swing had caught him. She was too tall—her instinctive decapitating stroke had just caught the top of his head. A strip of flesh hung over his left eye, and blood streamed from the scalp wound down his face. He was circling now as she was, awaiting an opening. As he caught her eye he grinned—a brave smile, saluting her, Aurian found herself smiling back, returning his salute with a barely perceptible tilt of her blade. He had courage—and he knew that she had. Aurian found herself wishing that she could fight at his side, rather than against him.
She lunged—he feinted. Stalemate. Circle once more. The crowds were restless, they wanted action. A scatter of boos and catcalls could be heard. The little man lashed out and Aurian rolled beneath his blade, swearing as hot agony shot down her wounded arm. She landed on her feet, facing her opponent. Her blade had caught his ankle as she rolled. Pure accident, or Portal’s unstinting training taking over? He was limping badly, his foot half severed and losing a lot of blood. The crowd roared, hungry for the kill. To Aurian they were the enemy, not the courageous warrior. Stop that! she warned herself. This isn’t the Garrison. Sentimentality here will mean your death.
Aurian braced herself, taking the weight and grip of the sword with her right hand and balancing it as best she could with her next-to-useless left hand, which was locked in a death grip around the hilt. The little man was reeling, his face glazed with sweat and blood. Without warning, Aurian moved swiftly to her right so that his vision was blocked by the hanging flap of scalp over his left eye. He turned—but too late. Aurian felt a screaming agony in her left arm as her sword bit through bone —then his head was rolling, bouncing across the sand as his body swayed then toppled in a welter of blood that fountained from the severed neck. The death howl from the crowd almost knocked her flat beside him. Rocked back on her heels by the din, Aurian stood over her dead opponent, lifting her streaming blade and kissing it, in a warrior’s salute to the fallen.
It was lucky that the crowd’s roar warned her. Blinded by tears, Aurian had not seen her next opponents leave the tunnel’s mouth. Now they were nearly upon her. Dashing her bloody hand across her eyes, she turned to face the new challenge. What was this? Two men, one armed with a long spear, the other with only a net. Aurian blinked in confusion. This was completely outside her experience. They fanned apart, right and left, until she could not watch both. Then, too late, she understood. The warrior with the net was a blind—a distraction. She had to watch the one with the lethal spear that was leveled at her chest. If she took her eye off him, he could hurl his spear, or rush her. But while she watched the spearman, the other could creep up behind her with the disabling net.
Rage swept through Aurian like a forest fire. Unfair! But this time she caught herself, forcing herself to stay calm and think. Never mind fair—she had to win her way out of this. All the time she was thinking, Aurian had been backing away, trying to keep both men in her field of vision. Soon they would have her trapped against the stone wall that ran round the edge of the Arena. She caught the glance of understanding that flashed between her two foes. So they wanted her there! Aurian didn’t understand why, but if that was their idea, she was having none of it. ^
She feinted right,’ then made a sudden dive to her left, toward the net bearer. From the corner of her eye, she caught a flash of movement as the spearman made his cast. Aurian felt the heavy point go through her calf, grazing the bone and tearing the muscle. She almost fainted with pain and shock— but the desperate leap had taken her far enough. Her wrists were jarred as the keen edge of her sword hit the netmans knees. He crumpled to the ground in a pool of his own blood, crippled and screaming.
The spearman, weaponless now, ran to grab the net while Aurian was disabled. Once enmeshed in its folds, she would be finished. There was no help for it—she needed the spear, with its longer reach, to defend herself. Aurian dropped her sword and seized the wooden shaft, wrenching the barbed metal blade out through her leg, feeling flesh and muscle tear as she did so. Dizzying, nauseating agony engulfed her and her vision blurred. There was no time to get to her feet. Almost blindly, Aurian flipped the spear around, plunging the butt end into the fallen net. With a sharp, sideways tug, she twitched the tangled meshes right out from under the spearman’s reaching hands.
It was the last thing he had expected. To gain the net now, he would have to come closer—closer than was wise without a weapon. In the split second of hesitation while he weighed the odds, Aurian acted, sliding the smooth spear butt out from under the net as she reversed it—and threw.
The spearman had already fathomed her plan. He was already running, and Aurian, still on the ground, was not in a position to throw strongly. But the range was short—and it was enough. He stumbled, fell forward, the bloody point of the spear embedded in his back. Could she have killed him? Surely not, Aurian thought dimly. But dead or not, he did not rise. On the other hand, if she failed to get to her feet, it would not count as a win for her, either.
The howling of the crowd receded as a welcoming veil of darkness swirled around the Mage. It would be easy to let go— to slip into unconsciousness . . . She had won so far ... Maybe they would let her live to fight another day . . .
What, and go through all this again? “No!” Aurian told herself firmly. “Get on your feet, warrior!” Groping for her sword, she set its point in the bloodstained dirt and dragged herself blindly upright, leaning on the strong blade. The pain brought tears to her eyes. Her injured leg would not support her, her back ached where she had wrenched it in her fall, and her left arm was next to useless. She was weak from exertion and loss of blood. Oh Gods, she thought. How can I face another opponent like this? Fleetingly she longed for her lost powers. If it weren’t for these accursed bracelets, she thought bitterly, I could save myself yet. But wait! The bracelets stopped her from putting forth her powers, but would they stop her from taking power in? She remembered the riot in Nexis, and how she had used the anger of the mob to bring the rain.
Aurian concentrated with all her might, turning her will inward to pull, as she normally turned it outward to manipulate . . . And it was coming! She pulled in energy from the heat of the sun, from the very life-force and blood lust of the mob that surrounded her. To them it seemed like a sudden chill in the air, a brief shadow passing across the face of the sun, though no clouds marred the sky.
Aurian’s ragged breathing steadied, her vision cleared. She could not Heal her wounds or even still the pain, but the weakness of blood loss had left her and her body felt the renewed strength of her borrowed energy. For the first time, Aurian wondered why there was such a delay, though it had given her the respite she so badly needed. The cries of the crowd returned to her consciousness, crashing against her like a tidal wave. What were they chanting? ’’Demon! Demon!’1 There seemed to be some confusion. No more opponents had appeared. Aurian leaned on her sword, husbanding her strength. She saw Eliizar, standing on the sands before the flower-decked royal balcony. He seemed to be caught up in some kind of debate with the King.