Then the Butcher arrives.
Rot, she’s big. Not just big for a woman, but bigger than a human has any right to be, with barrel-thick arms, fists like knots of sausage, legs like tree trunks. She’s made all the larger by her armor, the same elaborate kit I saw her in the first night I arrived. Her blond hair is concealed under a narrow-visored helmet, and overlapping plates of crab shell cover her torso, her shoulders, her knees. Her hands are swathed in long leather gauntlets, with the white flash of the razor-sharp tooth on the back of each palm. Her sword is a rectangular thing like a cleaver, with no point but a gleaming, freshly honed edge.
Enough. It’s not like I haven’t fought big bruisers before. Never so elaborately equipped, to be sure, but how much difference will that make against Melos armor and blades? Jack said that the Butcher has a touch of Rhema, which means she’ll be faster than she looks. And maybe Melos as well, though she can’t be very strong, or why rely on that monster sword?
My eyes find Meroe in the crowd again, and I take a deep breath. I can do this. I have to do this.
The deck doesn’t actually shake as the Butcher makes her way across the Ring. That has to be my imagination.
“Hello, Butcher.”
Her lip curls. “I knew I should have killed you for talking back.”
“I knew I would have to kill you eventually.”
“Better girls than you have tried.” She leans closer. “When I’m finished taking you apart, I’m going to take your princess and cut her into tiny pieces. Just remember that when you’re bleeding out.”
I let out a breath, feeling strangely calm. “You won’t.”
“You think Zarun will protect her? That two-faced prick? He’ll sell her to me for half a bucket of crab juice once you’ve failed him.”
“Meroe can protect herself.”
“Her? The girl who stood there and whined about her father while I beat her bloody?” Her lips part in a nasty grin. “That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard all day.”
“Isoka Deepwalker.” Karakoa’s voice booms across the Ring, and the spectators quiet. “You stand accused of trespass in the Captain’s domain. Since the Council is divided as to your punishment, your challenge has been accepted. Do you still assert your innocence?”
“I do,” I say, as loud as I can. If everything goes according to plan, I’ll be asserting more than that.
“Then we will see if the Ring proves your case.” He sits back in his chair. “Begin.”
I ignite my blades with a crack-hiss, familiar energy coursing down my arms. The Butcher is raising her sword, but it’s too heavy and she’s too slow. I’m already dodging around her left side, one blade swinging, the other on guard against a sudden lunge.
I’m expecting a trick, waiting for one. But the blade connects, slashing across her crab shell armor in a spray of green energy, leaving a scorched, smoking path. Where two plates join, I feel it slip through and bite into flesh, and as I dance away I can see blood blooming on her flank.
“Ooh,” the Butcher says, turning to face me. She has her huge sword held in front of her now, as though its weight were nothing. “That stings.”
She’s still smiling, and I can see why. This could be a problem. Her vulnerable spots are well protected, and she’s so big that I’ll have a hard time doing lethal damage unless I can get to her face or throat. Meanwhile, on the one hand, if I get tagged by that sword, it’s going to hurt, armor or no armor.
On the other hand, staying out of the way of the huge blade shouldn’t be difficult. And she’s still human. If she’s bleeding, she’ll go down eventually.
Golden light shimmers around her, as though she were briefly outlined by an invisible sun. Rhema, the Well of Speed. When she moves, she’s faster, though not as blurringly fast as Aifin. Touched, like Jack warned me, rather than a full adept. I give ground for a few steps, getting a feel for her speed and reach. She swings the cleaver blade back and forth, a steady, rhythmic attack that cuts the air with a thrum. It’s easy to predict, and I dart forward as she goes into the backswing, aiming my blade at her leg.
She can’t get the sword around in time, but she slashes at my chest with her off hand, using the tooth like a punch dagger. My blades slam into her armor, and crab shell breaks with a crack. The Butcher grunts as Melos power leaves a long, bleeding line on her thigh. At the same time, her tooth skitters across my body, repelled by shimmering armor. I feel the impact as a line of heat, warm but tolerable.
I come to a halt a few yards away from her, and she turns to face me, big sword whirling in front of her. She’s wearing a thoughtful expression.
“You’re as good as everyone says.” She nods, as though acknowledging me. “A full Melos adept.”
“You’re welcome to give up, assuming that’s allowed,” I tell her. “I’m not really clear on the rules.”
“Oh no.” She chuckles. “You’re going to be begging me to kill you quick. I’m just going to have to show off a little, that’s all.”
She comes forward, cleaver-sword flashing in a dangerous figure eight. Again, I go for her unguarded side, moving around her before she can turn. This time I aim for her shoulder, hoping to slip my blades under the plate there. Her off hand comes up again, and I have a moment to register that there’s a shimmering aura around it, a halo of magical energy that matches the crackling green of my armor. Suspicious, I abandon my attack, darting back, and get far enough out of range that her fingers barely brush against my stomach.
There’s a brilliant flash, and crack like the world’s largest branch breaking. Heat rolls over me. For a moment I can’t see, my vision full of flaring afterimages. Green lightning crawls across my body, earthing itself in long arcs to the deck.
The kick comes out of nowhere, slamming into my stomach. Even with the Melos armor, it would be enough to knock me off my feet, with all the Butcher’s weight behind it. I go limp, letting it carry me, ready to hit the deck and roll—
—but the Melos armor doesn’t flare. There’s no crackle of green fire or spray of lightning. Just a thump of bone-cracking impact, and an abrupt spike of pain.
I don’t even notice when I hit the deck, skidding across it to sprawl on my back. The world spins around me, the sound of the crowd an oceanic roar in my ears. Every breath is an agony, not the familiar pain of powerburn but something sharp and nauseating.
Rot, rot, rot. Get up, Isoka.
I raise my head, expecting to find the Butcher bearing down on me, but she’s still several yards away, propped on the hilt of her oversized sword. I force myself to roll onto one shoulder, gathering my legs under me. Blood gushes from my midsection, splashing across the deck. I put my hand to my stomach and find a neat hole in my leathers and the flesh beneath, torn skin hot against my fingers. The Butcher has one of those sharp, triangular teeth on her boot, too, and it’s now dyed red.
She makes no move to attack as I shakily regain my feet, one hand still pressed against the wound. Once I’m up, she straightens, stretching her shoulders and heaving that monster sword into the air again.
“Bit of a shock, isn’t it?” she says, conversationally. “Not used to having holes punched in you.”
I close my eyes, concentrate. My blades shimmer to life with a crackle, but the warmth that my armor should conjure doesn’t follow. When I open my eyes again, the Butcher is holding up a closed fist, wreathed in sparking green energy.
“Won’t work,” she says. “Not until I let go. I never had enough control in Melos to protect myself, but I learned this trick from a Jyashtani boy. Interference, I think he called it.” Her grin turns vicious. “How do you like being mortal, you rotting bitch?”
Then she comes forward, sword swinging, trailing the golden light of Rhema as she moves with preternatural speed. I back up, dodging, not daring to parry a blade that heavy. Every move tears at the hole in my stomach, the leather around it now sodden with blood. I can barely think through the pain.
When we reach the edge of the Ring, I have to do something or get backed into the barrier. The Butcher is coming at me with big sideways swings, all power and no finesse. I slip in behind one, feinting low and then jabbing one blade right at her face. She takes the feint strike on her thigh, Melos energy crackling over armor, and blocks the high strike with her off hand. As I spin away, she pulls back, and the tooth on her gauntlet leaves a long cut along the length of my arm. Fresh pain blooms, and blood spatters the deck.
“Getting a little weary?” she says, watching me sway. She slaps the spot on her thigh where I cut her and grins. “I can keep this up all day.”