It can’t be long until midday, so I don’t have time to waste. Fortunately, the Ring isn’t hard to find. All I have to do is follow the crowd. Apparently the news that the infamous Deepwalker will be fighting has spread rapidly, and a steady stream of crew drifts down the ragged street. Word of what I look like has spread, too, and I can hear the whispers around me, see the glances at the marks on my face. I keep my eyes fixed ahead, ignoring them.
The Ring isn’t as elaborate as I imagined. It’s just a large, clear area of deck, roughly circular, surrounded by a chest-high barrier improvised from scrap metal. A single gate leads inside, and rising platforms around the perimeter provide somewhere for crowds to stand and watch. Opposite the gate, there’s a dais, like one of the fancy boxes at the theater, with a half-dozen chairs.
Much of the arena is already ringed with crew. The sound of conversation dies as I walk through the gate, leaving a moment of silence. Then it returns, much louder. I look around, but I don’t see Ahdron. I must be early.
The platform is occupied, though. I assume it’s for the officers, because I recognize Zarun’s lean, handsome face, and the massive, armored figure of the Butcher. I don’t know the others. An Imperial girl, younger than me, in a silk kizen with a wide-brimmed hat and wispy veil, sits in an elegant, correct posture. Beside her is a tall, broad-shouldered young man, with the same light brown skin and broad features as Ahdron, wearing martial leathers and an inscrutable expression.
The final chair is occupied by a boy close to my own age, with classically Jyashtani features and wearing the loose black-and-white clothes I’ve seen on their traders in Kahnzoka. He has round spectacles that catch the light, reminding me for a moment of Kuon Naga, and holds a tall wooden cane in one hand, tapping it idly against the platform. While all eyes are on me, he seems to be watching with particular interest. I return his stare for a moment, then glance at Zarun, who raises his eyebrows knowingly. The Butcher is glaring, but I avoid her eyes. Then the tenor of the crowd noise changes, and I turn around.
Ahdron comes in through the gate. He’s dressed in thick, dark leather, closer to armor than what he wore on our hunts, and he has a round shield strapped to his left arm and a sword at his belt. I watch him carefully as he crosses the floor of the Ring. Fighting crabs, Ahdron didn’t seem particularly well trained, but there’s a confidence in his stance now. He stops a few feet away from me, scowling.
“Forgive me if I don’t know the procedure,” I tell him. “Are we supposed to bow?”
“Go and rot,” he says, jaw clenched.
“You don’t have to do this,” I say. “This is your chance to get out from under the Butcher’s thumb for good. What did she offer you to kill me?”
He glances up at the officers. “We had an agreement,” he says. “And you stabbed me in the back.”
“Forgive me if I’d rather not spend my life working for someone who wants me dead.” I yawn, stretching my arms over my head. “And I haven’t stabbed you anywhere. Yet.”
“So rotting cocky.” His right hand clenches tight, and wisps of smoke rise from between his fingers. “Is that how you got chosen as a sacrifice? Mouthed off to the wrong person?”
“More or less.”
“Ahdron, leader of Pack Nine.” One of the officers stands up, the big warrior, his voice booming across the ring. “Isoka Deepwalker. Are you ready?”
Ahdron nods, tightly. I give a nonchalant wave.
“The challenge is recognized by the Captain and the Council,” he says. “The victor will be the new pack leader. The winner will accept the loser’s surrender, and show mercy.” He raises a hand, then lets it fall. “Begin.”
I’m not expecting any mercy from Ahdron. Killing me would please the Butcher, and I’m certain he’s eager to curry favor. And, all bluster aside, I’m having doubts.
I’ve spent my life fighting. Half the time, that alone is enough of an advantage. Most people, even criminals and thugs, avoid violence if they can help it, unless it’s against people who can’t fight back. When you go up against a gang of street toughs, you can see in their eyes who the real hard men are, and who’s spent their time kicking people while they’re down.
Ahdron has the look. He’s done this before. And, in a crucial way, he’s more experienced than I am. On Soliton, everyone’s a mage-blood, and if he’s not bluffing, Ahdron’s even faced Melos users before. I’ve never fought anyone with their own Well before, much less an adept.
Some things are obvious, though. I have to stay close to him. If he opens the range, he can throw fire at me until my armor overheats and I have to choose between being cooked by powerburn or Myrkai flames. In close, if he has to face me with an ordinary sword and shield, my blades and armor should give me an advantage. I hope.
I ignite my blades with a crack-hiss, and Melos green shimmers across my body, earthing itself in crackling lightning on the deck. To my surprise, Ahdron doesn’t back away to gain distance, or even go for his sword. Instead, he flexes the fingers on his right hand and drops into a crouch. A ball of flame appears in his palm, the air around it shimmering with heat haze.
First move to me, then. I come in fast on his unshielded right side. He releases the fireball as soon as I move, and it impacts on my arms as I bring them up to block. A wash of heat ripples across my armor, but it’s nothing serious. More dangerous is the fact that for a moment he’s hidden from view by the flash and smoke, and when I come out the other side he’s shifted stance, leading with his shield.
I swing my left-hand blade at his head, a wide, slow stroke he can see coming a mile away, then shift my balance at the last minute and punch out with the other blade, going for his belly. If he’d bought the feint, it would have run him through, but he’s too good for that. He ducks, letting one blade slash over his head, and takes the second blow on his shield. Energy screeches against steel as my blade slides off in a shower of sparks and crackling green lightning. I spin past and away, but not before he reaches for me with his empty right hand. I get a brief glimpse of white-hot fire—
There’s a moment of blinding heat and exquisite pain. I’m not certain if I scream.
Blessed’s rotting balls, that hurts.
Between blinks, I’m on the deck, curled up on my side, wild discharges of green Melos power arcing and sputtering all around me. Ahdron is standing over me, his hand still glowing, gouts of smoke rising from it. The air smells like scorched metal.
“I told you I’d fought your kind before,” Ahdron says. “You didn’t believe me. I knew you wouldn’t. Too cocky by half, all of you Melos types.” He closes his fist in a puff of smoke. “Your armor may stop a bolt of fire, but up close, I can make things a lot hotter.”
No rotting kidding. But I’m not as badly wounded as he seems to think. My armor did stop the blow, even if the powerburn hurt like the Blessed’s own cattle brand. Ahdron hasn’t fought a Melos adept as strong as I am. I lie still a moment longer, blades sputtering and arcing to the deck. He takes a step closer.
“I’m not going to ask you to surrender,” he says, too quietly for anyone but us to hear. “But lie still and I can make this quick.”
Unfortunately, he’s not stupid. Before he bends down to jam that white-hot fist into my face, he puts his boot on my arm, and he keeps his shield in front of him. That reduces my options, but he’s still clearly not expecting me to be able to move. I swing my free arm low, under the rim of his shield, and the blade chops into the meat of his leg with a crackle and a smell of burning flesh. He shouts and stumbles back, and the injured leg gives way underneath him, sending him to one knee. I roll away, gaining distance.
Pulling myself to my feet brings a fresh wave of pain from my side, and I blink away tears. He gets up at the same time, teeth gritted, clearly hurt but still able to stand. I raise my blades, staring at him through a field of crackling green.
“Surrender?” I force a smile.
“Rotting … bitch,” he hisses, through clenched teeth.
I take this as a no. He raises his free hand and unleashes a gout of flame, Myrkai power washing over me. My armor flares, but it’s mild compared to the concentrated heat he can deliver up close, a distraction rather than an attack. I charge, swinging left to get out of the blast, and he turns to meet me shield first. I lash out with one blade, then the other, Melos power leaving blackened streaks on the metal and notches in the rim. When he tries to counter, open hand darting forward full of white-hot flame, I step back and slash down, and he has to retreat to avoid losing his fingers.