More thrax march into the stadium, this time their cotton tunics hold the image of three claw scratches in deep blue. The Kamal warriors form a line across the center of the Arena floor, about twenty fighters in all. Their bodies look lean and sinewy; their cocoa faces are set into determined frowns.
Scanning the faces, I look for some girl fighters, but can’t find one. Hmm. The other Houses didn’t have female warriors either. That is so weird. I wonder if all the thrax women run around batting their eyes and feeling guys muscles like that Adair girl? Hmm. Not sure I want to know the answer to that question.
The Kamal let out a loud whoop. Tigers burst from the Arena archways, racing toward the floor’s center. Falcons swoop down from the sky; long blue ribbons hang from their talons. All the creatures settle in place, one animal for each warrior. They roar and shriek so loudly, I think my eardrums will burst. The warriors bow slightly; the animals fall silent. The Kamal march in unison, taking their places beside the other Houses. The falcons perch on their warrior’s arm, the tigers stand at their fighter’s side. All the animal’s bodies remain still as stone.
My mind whirls through all the demons that’d be easier to fight with a Kamal tiger or falcon at my side. I bob my head approvingly. Those would come in mighty handy, indeed.
“Fourth is the House of Acca. These thrax are renowned for their abilities with a crossbow.”
I lean against the stonewall, hitching my right foot across my left. This is taking a long time, but the warrior displays are super-interesting. Who knew there were so many ways to fight demons besides hand-to-hand? I work hard to look casual and actively ignore the unwanted images of Lincoln’s mouth that keep popping into my mind. An anxious feeling tightens my stomach. Stop thinking about him, damn it.
Twenty warriors walk onto the Arena floor, their black velvet tunics sewn with the image of a gloved yellow fist. All have stout bodies, pale skin, and golden hair. Each fighter wears metal-studded gloves and carries a silver crossbow. The Acca warriors march to the floor’s center and stand in a long line. Moving as one unit, they all fire a single metal bolt straight into the air.
I purse my lips. That’s not so impressive. I know zero about crossbows, and I could do that, easy peasy.
The stadium holds its breath as the bolts fly skywards, then reverse direction and speed back to the ground. The warriors lift their arms, catching the bolts in their gloved hands.
I take it back. That’s a pretty neat trick.
“Fifth is the House of Rixa, rulers of the thrax and the only bloodline who can wield the mighty baculum.” A hush falls over the stadium as Lincoln, his father, and mother process onto the Arena floor. All three wear silver crowns.
On instinct, my body tenses into battle stance, tail arcing over my shoulder. All my forgotten anger from the library slams back into me, raw and present. ‘Real thrax warrior,’ my ass.
After the royal family, sixty warriors march onto the Arena floor in neat lines, each step in perfect unison. These men dress in black leather pants topped by silver chain mail and a black velvet tunic. The image of an eagle is sewn onto their chests in silver thread. The bird swoops downward, claws extended.
My tail whips behind me in a slow, predatory rhythm. My inner demon awakens, anger pumps through my veins. I grit my teeth as I take in the scene.
King Connor stands sturdy and tall, a silver sword hanging from a belt about his waist. Beside him, the Queen is arrayed in a black velvet gown with a full skirt and long looping sleeves, all edged in silver ribbon. Her sandy brown hair is wound into a bun at the base of her neck. Lincoln walks beside them with military precision. Shadows shift across his full mouth, brown hair, and strong shoulders.
My eyes flicker red with wrath.
The Rixa march to the Arena’s center, forming three columns of twenty soldiers each. The King, Queen, and High Prince stand nearby.
Lincoln steps forward, raising one hand. “On my mark!”
The men in the first column reach behind their backs, pulling what looks like two short silver rods from the folds of their tunics.
I squint, trying to see the weapons in their hands. Are those teensy little sticks the ‘mighty baculum?’ Not too impressive, Prince Pompous.
Lincoln lowers his arm.
The soldiers place one stick in each hand. A line of fire extends from both ends of the baculum, turning the rods into two short spears made of white flame.
The warriors toss the spears into the air. The lines of white fire whip skyward, then spiral back into the warrior’s hands. The Rixa set the two baculum together, creating one longer, heavier spear. Holding it before them with both hands, the warriors thrust the spear into the earth.
Okay, maybe that’s a little bit impressive.
Lincoln turns to the next group and nods.
The second column brings out their baculum, holding both sticks together in one hand. Fire extends from the baculum, turning the short silver rods into long tridents made of white flame. The warriors run through a series of synchronized lunges and spins. Like the first group, they end by setting the base of their tridents into the soil.