The maddening maelstrom swirled around her, yet there was something in her thoughts, something just beyond her reach, which teased her. The Empress had directed them to the tunnel they could escape into. Or was it already too late?
Her father’s expression was hardened with determination. He did not look frantic or agitated—just fiercely serious. Paedrin looked as if he were ready to spring into the air and start fighting. Hettie was looking at the doorway out, while Baylen glared at the gathering enemies and drew his twin blades. All of her fellow companions deferred to Tyrus, awaiting his decision. It happened in moments.
“We won’t abandon you,” Tyrus said, rounding to face the Empress. “Call a challenge. There is a blood debt here to satisfy. The boy will face Tasvir Virk. Challenge him in your tongue!”
Phae stared at her father in horror. Annon’s face went white as milk.
The Empress blinked, startled, and then raised her voice into a scream. “Itsun Golgotha!” She strode forcefully in front of the group, raising both hands in the air and screamed it again. “Itsun Golgotha!”
Somehow those words managed to quell the turbulent fury of the Boeotians. The weapons raised were stilled, but they trembled with pent-up rage. The Empress stood like a lioness, chin jutting forward, her hair wild. “A cochir. Tan vanu! You are challenged to the death, Tasvir Virk. The Druidecht who stole your honor, who left you with nothing but a shameful hand, will finish what he started in the Vaettir woods. You are challenged for the right to lead this war band. Only blood will suffice.”
Tyrus grabbed Annon by the shoulder and prepared to shove the boy forward. Phae quailed at the thought, but she trusted her father would not let the Druidecht die. Was there a weapon he would be given, something that would help balance the battle?
“What are you asking of me?” Annon asked hoarsely, his eyes blazing with naked fear.
“I will go,” Paedrin volunteered, his jaw muscles tense. “Send me in there, Tyrus.”
“No, Annon must go.” He gave them each a hard look. “Annon must face him. Gather round me. Quickly.”
Phae was already there and she saw the looks in their eyes. No one could tell what Tyrus was up to. Yes, the enemy Tasvir Virk was missing one hand, but in his other he clutched a wicked-looking club with a strange orange orb fastened into one end.
“You play games!” Tasvir snarled.
“You cannot defy this challenge,” the Empress countered. “Or you stand as a coward before these men.”
“It is trickery,” Tasvir said. “They will flee. Atu vast!”
Phae felt a jumble and someone bumped into her and nearly knocked her over. When she straightened she watched Annon leaving the circle, walking toward the Empress. His face had a look of grim determination as he left the shelter of his companions.
“What are you doing?” Paedrin demanded. “He will be slaughtered!”
Phae looked for the cat-creature, Nizeera. She had settled down on her haunches, her tail lashing with misery as her pale eyes gleamed, staring at the Druidecht. She did not hasten to his side.
“Father?” Phae whispered, but Tyrus was already moving, bending low and whispering into Mathon’s ear. The diseased face revealed no emotion, but the eyes were bright—a man being spared an execution.
The Empress turned as Annon approached. “He deserves a weapon. An equal weapon.”
Tasvir Virk’s horrid face twisted with the rush of glee and defiance. “Atul!”
From the press of bodies, someone hurled a club. Annon just managed to dodge the coarse object as it thumped into the dirty ground, bouncing a little before coming to rest. The wall of Boeotians opened around them, providing a small circle for the battle to happen. Chanting began, this time raw and full of triumph. Tasvir Virk! Tasvir Virk! Tasvir Virk!
Annon crouched and picked up the wooden cudgel. He slowly rose, holding it awkwardly.
The Black Druidecht suddenly reached out his hand and a jet of blue flames streaked at the young man, engulfing him in an instant. The heat and power knocked back many who were too close on the other side. She saw their skin smoking, the purple tattoos becoming livid, and then the flames died down. Phae stared in surprise. None of the Boeotians had been harmed by the flames. It seemed as if there was some magic in their tattoos that protected them. Their faces twisted with delight.
As the flames died, Annon stood steadfast, head bowed, unharmed. Of course the fireblood would not have harmed him.
Tasvir Virk nodded, as if he had expected to see that, and then he began to croon, speaking in the language of Boeotia, his tone taunting. He began to swing the club around in circles, faster and faster as he approached Annon. Spittle flecked from his lips.