Phae’s heart raced with concern. Annon began to step back, his feet looking clumsy as he tried to time the Black Druidecht’s attack. Phae squeezed her fists, biting her lip as she watched the duel. Then, like a cobra, Tasvir Virk lunged and his club whistled down the other way, aiming to crush Annon’s skull.
Somehow the younger man managed to sidestep the attack in time and shoved Tasvir away with his own club. Nizeera growled in pleasure, if not relief. But the Black Druidecht brought an elbow into Annon’s stomach and whipped the club around again. Annon ducked and circled the other way, trying to keep out of the taller man’s reach.
Phae was amazed. She was terrified for Annon, but it seemed his emotions had frozen in that moment of need, giving him clarity and strength. His eyes focused on his enemy, watching his movements and trying to determine his intentions. He dodged two more thrusts and then the gaunt man trapped Annon’s boot with his. Suddenly Annon was lying on his back in the middle of the arena. Tasvir howled with victory and swung the club down, but the orb struck dust and dirt as Annon rolled to the side. He kicked out at Tasvir’s leg, landing a strike right below the knee. The gaunt man grimaced in pain and tottered but did not fall.
The orb in Tasvir’s club began to glow, sending off smoky tendrils of light tinged with green. The Boeotians who were packed tightly recoiled from the smoke and light and began to push against each other to back away, to clear more space for the combatants.
A wicked grin spread across Tasvir’s lips. “You cannot defeat me,” he said, saliva dribbling from the crook of his mouth. “My magic poisons you. You bear not the runes to defend against its power. Wither, boy. I will take your hand!”
Tasvir feinted with the club, sending its trailers of magic into Annon’s chest.
Annon winced, his expression clouding over as if overcome with nausea. Phae began to tremble, wondering if she was going to watch Annon be murdered in front of them all. She looked for Tyrus and saw him bent over the ground near the stone boulder that the Empress had been seated in front of during her wild tale. It was the boulder with the broken face carved into it, the nightmare expression that would haunt her dreams. Tyrus put a stone on the ground near the boulder. She saw there were more already around it. What was he . . . ?
The sound of two clubs clashing drew her gaze back. The Boeotians were staring, startled. There was fear in their eyes—fear of what they had just seen.
Tasvir stared at Annon in surprise. Something had happened between them that Phae missed. She gazed at Annon as well, saw him standing a little straighter. Tasvir swung the club around again, hard as iron. Annon blocked it effortlessly, the cracking noise reverberating in the chamber. Tasvir screamed in fury and butted the ball into Annon’s stomach. It was like striking a wall.
Phae’s eyes widened and she realized what was happening.
Snarling with uncomprehending fury, the Black Druidecht pulled back and swung the club straight down. This time, his opponent did not step aside; instead he stepped in and caught the club with his own, which shattered Tasvir’s weapon into fragments. Tossing aside the fragments, Annon—only it wasn’t—gripped Tasvir Virk’s wrist and flipped him onto his back in front of everyone.
There was a moment of pure mayhem and the crowd prevented Phae from seeing what happened. It was Shion, not Annon. Then she remembered the charm Hettie had—the one that allowed her to look like anyone else. Of course!
“Atu kolgren. Atu fesit! Bloch mondray.”
The orders were said in a strong, piercing voice. She recognized it as Shion’s, only somehow he was speaking in the Boeotian language. The crowd backed away even more sharply now and she saw Tasvir in a crumpled heap, his single arm twisted cruelly behind his back, his frothing mouth screaming in pain and rage in the dirt. He struggled despite the agony, trying to free himself from the vicious hold.
Annon’s face turned to Phae; their eyes met. Somehow, despite the illusion, she recognized him. It was the expression, the studied serious look he always wore. It was strange on such a young man’s face.
“You must kill him,” the Empress said, striding forward. “It is the way of our people. He has failed and he must die. His honor demands it. You’ve bested him, Druidecht. Though I cannot say how.”
Shion brought his arm around and hooked it around Tasvir Virk’s throat, keeping his arm pinned all the while. Tasvir spluttered, trying to thrash his way out of the hold. He was untamable, completely mad, heedless of the pain. Blood trickled from his lips as he tried to contort his way free.
The Boeotians’ eyes were full of battle lust, yet many set down their weapons, staring at the young Druidecht with awe.
With just a flex of his arm, Shion could have stopped the madman from breathing. Phae stared at them, wondering what the Quiet Kishion would do.