I noticed more than a few of them looking for “the girl.” I knew this because I saw one point to me when the judge was looking the other way.
Well, two could play that game. My eyesight had always been better than most, and I could make out the oldest mages in a small triangle formation at the left side of the arena. They might’ve had too much pride to acknowledge their declining potential, but they were almost certainly lacking in brains to be clustered together for the taking. I couldn’t be the only candidate who had noticed their age.
I wasn’t. I kept one eye on my side of the arena as I watched a pack of five candidates approach the older ones from their front. No point in trying to hide their attack. The arena was a desert. There was nowhere to run.
The older candidates didn’t stand a chance. I watched two call on their magic as the other fled. It was the smartest move that one could make—to win the Candidacy with gray hairs on your head you would have to conserve as much magic as possible.
I didn’t have much opportunity to reflect. At that moment I spotted Merrick and another trailing mage at my left. There was another on my right. I had two choices: let myself get backed into a wall fighting three mages at once, or take my chances and run toward the stadium’s center and pray there wasn’t a collection of candidates awaiting my approach.
I chose the latter.
“You can’t run from us forever!” Merrick’s screech followed me as I tore across the sand.
I ignored him, putting all my effort into the gapping distance between. My lungs burned from inhaling small grains of sand I kicked up along the run. I paid them no heed. Instead, I forced my attention to the casting I would need most: defense.
The globe went up not a moment too soon. Seconds later there was the sharp whistle of metal on wind, and then three subsequent thuds against the back of my shield.
My casting shuddered but held, flickering violet in waves as the candidates’ javelins bounced off its surface. A moment later their weapons were gone; the mages had called off their castings.
I kept the shield up as I jogged toward the center.
The ground quivered beneath my boots. That was the only warning I had.
I dove toward the left, rolling hard on my side and blessing the arena for being sand instead of the marble training floor of the king’s palace.
Two seconds later a fissure broke out—not two feet from where I had come. It spread across the arena’s floor like a wildfire.
I hadn’t been the only target. In seconds there was a web of shallow tunnels. I could hear muffled shouts as unsuspecting candidates got caught unawares. The pits weren’t deep enough for anyone to get stuck, but they were enough to give several others an advantage in the moment.
I stifled a chuckle as I pushed myself up off the ground. That was a casting I could respect. It was hardly the type of magic to win a match, but it was smart. The older mages in Ferren had stressed the importance of conserving magic and that was far more strategic than Merrick’s rapid fire of javelins (which were still hitting my shield as I ran). Idiot. He would run out of his magic far too quickly.
A shout to my right and I veered left to narrowly avoid two candidates who had stumbled into my path as they dueled with a sword in each arm and a shield at their backs.
Someone jumped out at my front and my first instinct was ice. White tendrils of frost tore up his blade and the burly mage was forced to drop his weapon with a whimper. I didn’t bother to stick around and engage—the center was too open.
I sprinted past. A minute later I heard another man’s cry of victory as he claimed the other’s surrender. Then another shout of surprise as that man got caught unawares by another.
I ran around a cluster of three mages engaged in a battle of their own. Each one of them was wearing a globe like my own, but I could already see their shields showing signs of exhaust—the deep magenta had faded to an almost crystalline violet. They would have to call off their magic soon or resort to pain casting, if they had it.
There was a clap like thunder and my casting threw me forward. I stumbled, palms and knees skinning the sand as my casting shuddered and died. I felt a wave of heat rise up at its absence as the sharp, bitter scent of singed hair assaulted my nostrils.
“T-told you c-can’t run!”
I cursed bitterly as I pulled myself to my feet, hardly daring to mourn the loss of my dignity for more than a second. Merrick and his friend were now throwing great balls of fire across the sand, huffing and puffing as they ran.