“This is a sword fight?” she questions, appalled. Nazirah doesn’t know why she never thought to ask before.
Solomon nods grimly. “It is tradition,” he says. “As is the beheading.”
“Beheading?”
Screaming jeers and hisses suddenly erupt from the stands. Nazirah snaps her head to the left. Adamek enters from the opposite end of the field, dressed simply, carrying a silver sword. Nazirah hasn’t seen him since last night and her heart skips a beat.
“This is very unusual.”
Nazirah is unable to take her eyes off Adamek. “What is, Solomon?”
“It is an archaic Ziman custom to wear gloves when intending to kill a foe,” he answers. “It is done out of respect for the opponent, covering one’s own scratch marks. Mr. Morgen seems to follow that tradition, so I assumed he would be wearing them.”
Small bits of information click into place. In Adamek’s memory, he returned from Rafu wearing fingerless gloves. Victoria had stared and stared at them. And Nazirah knows why he isn’t wearing them now. He left them behind, buried on a beach far away, never again to see the light of day.
Adamek and Khanto approach each other slowly, meeting at the center of the field. Nazirah nervously wrings her hands, thinking about Adamek’s dusza, his scratches, and now the gloves. She wonders what she’s missing, what binds it all together. “Why is following these outdated Ziman rituals so important to him?” she asks Solomon.
“I would imagine it is because he trained there when he was younger,” he replies. “Something must have stuck. You never know which traditions you will disregard and which you will take to heart.” Solomon nods at Olag, who is holding a large gong. Olag hands him the striker.
Nazirah grabs Solomon’s arm, stopping him from hitting it. “Morgen trained in Zima?” she asks quickly, remembering something else from Adamek’s memory. “Is that where the monkey is? What is that?”
“Irri, what are you doing?” Cato demands, clearly upset. He touches her shoulder, but Nazirah shrugs him off.
“So many questions that I am unable to answer,” Solomon sighs. “You are asking the wrong person.” And before Nazirah can say anything else, Solomon rings the gong loudly, letting the fight begin.
The crowd, once raucous and rowdy, instantly goes silent. Khanto and Adamek, mere feet away, face Solomon and bow. Adamek’s gaze lingers on the ground. He looks up, seeking Nazirah out, locking eyes with her. She knows he sees the panic on her face, the trembling of her chin, the fear there. But she doesn’t look away.
She can’t.
Not from those green eyes that are making everything so heartbreakingly, confusingly, beautifully complicated.
Everything slows down. The Khan and Adamek face each other and nod slightly, touching their swords together. Nazirah watches with baited breath. And she waits. Neither makes the first move.
Her heart beats once, twice, three times.
Just when Nazirah thinks she can’t take anymore, when she’s teetering on the precipice of collapse or insanity or both, they start to battle. And Nazirah is ruthlessly catapulted into the present.
The swordfight is terrifying. Khanto, vengeful titan, attacks Adamek viciously, relentlessly. Adamek skillfully blocks each blow. But the Khan gains ground with every cut, forcing Adamek to retreat in defense. Nazirah grips the edge of her seat, knuckles white and bloodless.
“Why isn’t he attacking?” Aldrik shouts. “He’s just blocking him, for fuck’s sake! He’s not even trying to win!”
“Is that true?” Nazirah asks Solomon sharply.
“It does seem rather … one-sided at the moment,” Solomon responds.
“I hope that bastard gets his head lobbed off!” Aldrik rants. “That will teach him a lesson!”
The Khan begins screaming at Adamek in Deathlandic. “Solomon, what’s he saying?” Nazirah asks.
“Lord Khanto is upset that Mr. Morgen is not attacking,” he translates. “He says that by going easy on him, Mr. Morgen prevents the Khan from honoring his father.”
“This is easy?” she asks, bewildered. It certainly doesn’t look like Adamek is going easy on the Khan. If anything, it looks like he’s losing.
The Khan attacks again, enraged, trying to slay Adamek. Adamek sidesteps the blow a moment too late. Khanto’s blade cuts into Adamek’s fighting arm. Adamek drops his sword, falling to his knees. Khanto peers down at Adamek. He grins sadistically, licking blood off the flat of his blade. There is none of the warmth in his eyes, none of the humanity that Nazirah saw two weeks prior. There is only sinister hate and the evil, all-consuming need to kill. To avenge. Is this what Adamek looked like, right before he murdered Riva and Kasimir? Is this what she would look like?
Khanto does not make it a quick death.
He spits in Adamek’s face. He hunches over him, speaking so low that only those closest to the field can hear. Nazirah looks distraughtly at Solomon, hoping he will translate. But Solomon only stares at the Khan with great sadness. Nazirah tries to stand up, irrationally thinking she can somehow stop it from happening. Cato holds her back. She struggles against him. Khanto raises his sword, preparing for the final strike. He brings it down swiftly. Nazirah squeezes her eyes shut, unable to watch Adamek die.
The crowd collectively gasps. Against her will, Nazirah’s eyes snap open. She watches, uncomprehending, as the body slumps forward and collapses. Blood spurts from the neck cavity in waves, deep pulses that spray Nazirah’s face and arms. The severed head rolls towards her, collecting dirt and teeth and sand, leaving a sticky crimson trail in its wake. It comes to a stop only a foot away, mouth slack, lips parted in eternal glory. And still, Nazirah cannot comprehend.
It is not Adamek’s head.
Adamek stands, silver sword in his uninjured hand. The crowd silently watches him pray over Khanto’s body and then walk resolutely towards the severed head. With his still-bleeding arm, Adamek grabs what remains of the overlord by the braid, lifting it high for all to see. The crowd, once quiet, goes insane. They rise to their feet, cheering and screaming and ululating. The surviving Red Lords bow in respect.
But Nazirah cannot focus on any of it. She cannot hear any of it. Spots dance before her eyes, growing, blending, and changing colors. Her ears ring, muffle, and then dampen. Cato says something. His lips move, vocal chords vibrate, mashing syllables and consonants. Nazirah cannot process the words. She feels dizzy. Everything goes black, then blank.
#
Nazirah awakens in her room, feeling like her brain has been slammed with a sledgehammer. Solomon and Cato hover above. Her sight slowly sharpens into focus. She tries to sit up, but Olag gently presses her down.
“What happened?” she murmurs, holding her head.
Solomon dabs her forehead with a warm compress. “Oh, Miss Nation!” he exclaims. “Praise the gods, you are awake! We were so concerned!”
“You fainted, Irri,” Cato clarifies. “Just after Morgen won.”
“Olag carried you back,” Solomon confirms.
She fainted?
Nazirah has never fainted before … ever.
She sits up sharply this time, ignoring their protests. The cloth slides off her forehead, falling to her lap. Nazirah flings it away in frustration. “Why does my head hurt so much?”
“I tried to catch you when you collapsed,” Cato says. “But you hit your head on the stone first. We think you have a concussion.”
“And Morgen –”
“He is fine, just fine!” exclaims Solomon. He picks up Nazirah’s discarded cloth, wiping his own sweaty brow. “We had quite a scare at the end, but Mr. Morgen prevailed. He is with Mr. Slome right now and my best healers are tending to his arm. He will be perfect in no time at all.”
Nazirah’s head feels fuzzy. Like she needs everything repeated several times and then maybe once more to boot. “The Khan is dead?”
“He is,” Solomon replies sadly. “But he knew the risk. It is unfortunate that things have come to this, but it is a blessing in disguise. We mourn the loss of Khanto. But we also look towards the future, as the Red West allies with the rebels.”
“But,” she persists, “how did he win? He was on the floor. I thought for sure…”