Dark Queen (Jane Yellowrock #12)

“Blades and first blood. Begin.” Everyone stepped back except Gee, wearing metallic painted plasticized armor, and Concetta Gallo. The tiny woman, shaved headed, olive skinned, looked fourteen, though she was over two hundred. Her armor was silver-green and shiny, and she was a master swordswoman.

The combatants crossed swords, gave half bows, and from somewhere a single bell-tone sounded, echoing in the ceiling. They attacked. Blades clashing, glinting, flashing, they advanced and withdrew. Danced the Spanish Circle around the octagonal fighting ring. Gee cut, a controlled transfer of weight and balance, so smooth it looked as if nothing had happened. A deep cut sliced the woman’s face, bisecting her cheek from ear to nose. Instantly it bled in a drench, as all head wounds do, the flesh already swelling and drooping, to expose bloody teeth through the wound. They both stepped back, off the ring, but not as if they wanted to, and not as if they trusted the other to abide by rules of first blood. The bout had lasted all of five seconds. Maybe just four.

One of the film crew cursed softly, presumably at the speed.

Fast, Beast said, inside me, entranced. Want to fight fast with steel claws.

Brandon said, “Results of this duel are acceptable to the Onorios.”

Sabina said, “Next rounds, apace, now that Pellissier has drawn first blood.” She looked to Shiloh. “Call the next three bouts, which shall take place, as Americans say it, back-to-back.”

“No,” Titus said, adding what sounded like, “Es una locura.” Then in English he added, “This is mayhem. Unacceptable.”

We waited while someone explained to Titus that the phrase meant the bouts would follow one after the other, not with the fighters standing back-to-back while battling.

Titus shook his head and rattled off more foreign words, before adding, “Following this farce, it will be a privilege to teach the Americans their place and restore proper order, decorum, and protocol to these neglected shores.” As insults went that was a good one. I wondered if Titus had crib notes in his hand. Wisely I didn’t ask that question.

Leo narrowed his eyes, but he didn’t speak either. That might have had something to do with the film crew or with Bruiser’s hand on his shoulder, holding the MOC in his seat. Or playacting. Leo had planned for this night for, maybe, centuries.

Shiloh said, “Nibolio Mancini challenges Jane Yellowrock. Simon Costa challenges Jane Yellowrock. Lanbros Alafouzos challenges Eli Younger.”

My heart took a dive. Lanbros was a three-hundred-year-old vamp. He was a killer through and through. Eli was dead. I started forward, but someone held me back. The irony of Leo and me both being held back wasn’t lost on me. I snarled and jerked my arm free, but waited.

Gee said, “The honor of facing Nibolio Mancini is mine.”

Sounding like a bored roué, Edmund said, “I shall die of the tedium, but the honor of facing Simon Costa shall be mine.” The way he said honor let me know that Edmund and Simon didn’t like each other much.

“My name is properly pronounced See-MOH-neh,” the man said to Edmund, “as you are well aware. And though it is a dishonor to fight a former slave, I accept the humiliation of this bout, out of great regard for my master and emperor.”

I was watching Edmund’s undead face. Yeah. He’d been a slave. And though his expression gave nothing away, that history was still a hard pill to swallow.

A voice from the stairs said, “The honor of facing Lanbros Alafouzos is mine.” I spotted Koun ascending to the third floor. He wore no armor and was mostly naked, wearing only a loincloth, his body tattooed with blue and black dye in what was said to be Celtic symbols. “I am the chief strategist of Clan Yellowrock,” he said, as a cameraman stepped around him, getting the full three-sixty, front and back. “No one may gainsay me.”

Koun stepped up to me and dropped to one knee. So quietly no vamp on the far side of the room could have heard it, Koun said, “I yield unto you all my honor.”

Faster than my eyes could follow, Koun leaped from his crouch, going high, over the heads of those still standing, to land in front of Sabina, one knee on the floor, both hands touching the floor for balance, his blond head bent. “Mother bless me, for I have sinned.”

Sabina touched Koun’s head. “You have done well, my son. You are the only warrior to remember the old ways. Not even our once-emperor has been so proper.”

Titus snarled.

Sabina finished, “My blessing upon you, Koun of the Celts and of Clan Yellowrock.”

And then I remembered a rare codicil of the Vampira Carta that dealt with Sangre Duello. All the fighters were supposed to do homage to the clan Blood Master for whom they fought, and then to any outclan present. No others. No one in their right mind insulted an outclan priestess, yet Titus’s warriors had forgotten. So had Leo’s and mine, thanks most likely to the fact that weapons had been drawn out of order. Points against both sides.

Quickly Gee and Edmund bowed to me and to Sabina, followed by Titus’s people to their leader and then to the priestess. Sabina pointed to the octagonals inlaid in the floor and directed the three groups to take their places. “Gee DiMercy. Weapons?”

“Single sword,” Gee said, sounding bored. “Left hand only.” I figured it was the Mithran equivalent of “I’ll beat you with one hand tied behind my back.” Except that cheating was allowed, so hidden weapons might be used too.

Sabina asked, “Nibolio Mancini. First blood or death?”

Nibolio was a swarthy, hairy man with a full beard like some Renaissance peddler or fruit seller. “To fight one-handed is cowardly. First blood. This weakling does not deserve to die at my hand.”

Sabina said, “Edmund Hartley. Weapons?”

“Two swords,” Ed said. “No shield.”

Sabina asked, “Simon Costa. First blood or death?”

Simon was a Renaissance angel with eyes as blue as the sea on a postcard. “Death.”

My heart stopped beating, but Sabina went on. “Koun. Weapons?”

“Double-headed axes. Blades of steel.”

“Lanbros Alafouzos?” Sabina asked. “To death or blood?”

“I withdraw. I do not fight with the garden tools of the pagan and the barbarian.”

“Yellowrock and Koun,” Sabina said, “challenge from Alafouzos is withdrawn and his name stricken from the Sangre Duello. Death match is to be held downstairs, on the sand rings. Go now and await me.” Simon and Ed took the stairs silently.

Koun stepped to me, people making way for his broad nakedness, a glint in his eyes that said he had chosen the weapons knowing that Lanbros would back out. None of the camera crew was nearby, so I murmured to him, “Chief strategist of Clan Yellowrock,” I said. “Nice title.”

Koun agreed with a tilt of his head and murmured, “Battlefield promotion, my master. Self-awarded.” He took his place behind me, next to Eli. The clean bell-tone sounded, and I caught a glimpse of a female I didn’t know, holding a polished triangle bell and a metal beater. She was strawberry blond and short with cool green eyes. And she was missing three fingers of her left hand in what looked like a permanent injury, perhaps one from before she was turned.

Behind the bell ringer and to the side were most of our nonfighting humans, lined up on benches. Eating popcorn and drinking beer. Titus looked that way and his lip curled. More Taming of the Shrew. Go, humans. Titus’s nonfighting humans were on the far side of the bell ringer, still dressed in formal wear and looking uncomfortable in the sticky winter ocean breeze.

Nibolio Mancini and Gee engaged, left-handed, swords clanking in the first clash. In the next second Gee cut off Nibolio’s beard and through his throat. Springy beard hair and blood flew everywhere. Nibolio dropped to his knees. Another vamp dashed in to drag him off the octagonal. For a vamp, it wasn’t a lethal wound, but he wouldn’t be fighting anytime soon. Gee strolled off. This one had been a two-second duel.

“Did you get the shot?” a tiny British voice asked.