Malik stepped further out and came at him head on, feinting a crooked slice around the pillar at Fletcher’s head, then sweeping again for the legs. Fletcher leaped, letting the scimitar whistle under his feet. Landing in a crouch, he punched out and caught Malik on the cheek, knocking the noble back a few paces.
They glared at each other, panting. Fletcher had felt the silky smoothness of the barrier in the punch. He ran his palm along his own hand and felt the same, but barely. It was probably only Scipio who was channelling mana correctly to it. He put it to the back of his mind. There was nothing he could do about it now.
The scimitar swung back and forth, held lightly in Malik’s hand. It was not unlike a khopesh, with a curved blade and sharp point. With a flick, Malik tossed it from his right hand to his left.
‘My father taught me to fight left-handed. Did Sir Caulder ever teach you that?’ Malik snarled.
Fletcher ignored him, but a cold sweat trickled down his back. With the scimitar in Malik’s left hand, the pillar was no longer a barrier between them. Still, at least Fletcher had the high ground.
Malik stabbed at Fletcher’s stomach, but Fletcher caught it in the curve and forced it into the ground. They struggled, chest to chest, the wooden pathway creaking under their feet.
Fletcher could feel Malik’s hot breath on his face as the noble used his height and strength to lever the blade towards Fletcher’s crotch. He heaved, but the sword scarcely wavered as it slowly inched upwards.
He felt the point scrape along the inside of his thigh. Was that blood he felt trickling down his leg? The blade was just an inch away now. In a few seconds, it would be buried in his flesh.
Fletcher saw his life flashing before his eyes, images of Berdon, Didric, Rotherham. His first fight. Rotherham head-butting Jakov, a man twice his size.
It clicked. Fletcher looked up to the ceiling, then whipped his head forward, smashing Malik on the bridge of the nose with his forehead. The boy stumbled, and then fell, flailing, over the side.
Malik bounced off a jagged rock, which hit him squarely in the stomach. He lay in the sand, gasping like a beached fish.
‘A killing blow! The rock would have impaled him,’ Fletcher shouted.
‘Not in my opinion,’ Rook replied with a sneer. ‘It doesn’t look so sharp to me. See, he’s getting up already!’
Malik was indeed getting up. He glared up at Fletcher, taking deep, rattling breaths.
‘Give up! You’re injured, and I have the high ground!’ Fletcher implored.
But Malik would not. Fletcher had pushed him too far, hurt his pride too much. The young noble raised the scimitar with a roar and sliced it into the pillar. It clattered loudly, but Fletcher saw flecks of clay come spraying off.
Malik swung again, this time with greater success. Great chunks of red clay crumbled and the platform shook under Fletcher’s feet.
‘You give up!’ Malik shouted.
But there was no time for Fletcher to even reply. With a crack, the pillar began to collapse in on itself, hairline fractures spreading up the column like forked lightning.
With seconds to spare, Fletcher leaped from the top, praying for a soft landing. As he rolled into a crouch on the sand, the pillar crashed beside him, sending a maelstrom of ceramic dust into the air.
He could see nothing, the red powder coating his lips and tongue. It was hard to breath. A shadow went by on his left, then his right. Was it Rook? Or Malik?
Suddenly, Malik burst from out of the red haze, screaming in fury. He swung down hard, but Fletcher dodged aside, feeling the blade graze his forearm. Malik disappeared again, blending into the rusty gloom.
Fletcher looked at his arm. Blood welled, but it was just a scratch. He knew one thing now. This was for real – the barrier was useless. Just one lapse in concentration, and he was a dead man.
He spun around, looking for the shadow once more. A figure moved, just out of sight. He squinted, watching, as the dull figure raised its arm. A rock came flying out of the fog, cracking him on the forehead. Stars burst across his vision, and he was on his back, staring into the billowing dust.
Fletcher swam in and out of consciousness, the edges of his vision bruising. It would be so easy to just let it all go.
A searing pain flared in the palm of his hand, bringing him back from the abyss of unconsciousness. His head lolled to the side and he saw Valens, biting into his flesh with his mandibles. Fletcher coughed and shook his hand, trying to dislodge him. The beetle gave him once last nip, than shot off into the dust, his job done.
Fletcher began to stand, but the khopesh was kicked from his hand and a foot was pressed down on his throat.
‘I’m going to knock you out cold, Fletcher. Nobody disrespects the Saladins.’ Malik’s voice was faint, as if Fletcher was hearing it from a great distance. He needed help. Ignatius? No, he was too far away.
His hand scrabbled for a rock, anything, but all he could feel was sand. Malik raised his sword, his teeth stark white against the red dust that coated his skin. As the dust began to settle, he could see the watching crowd through the haze. Their cries of excitement reached a fever pitch.