‘Good night, Fletcher.’
Fletcher hurled a handful of sand at Malik’s face. The noble screamed and span away, blinded. Fletcher got to his feet unsteadily, then, with his last ounce of strength, tackled Malik to the ground. There was a thud as the noble’s head slammed against a rock, then silence.
They lay there for a while, the dust settling around them like a warm cloak. It was peaceful, lying in the dirt. He barely felt the hands that lifted him to his feet, or the glass of water that was pressed to his lips. But he did hear the words that Scipio was shouting.
‘Fletcher wins!’
52
‘I can’t do it, Fletcher. It has to be you,’ Othello implored through the bars of the next cell.
The dwarf was determined. Sir Caulder had just told them they would face each other in the semi-final, and Othello was refusing to fight.
‘No, Othello. I used up too much mana in the first round. I won’t be able to win,’ Fletcher replied.
‘Well, neither will I; Rufus broke my damned leg! I was lucky to beat him at all,’ Othello said, pointing at his heavily splinted shin. ‘In the next round, I’m going to tap out and let you go to the final. If it came to a fight between us, you would probably beat me at this point anyway. If I disqualify myself, you don’t need to use any mana in round three at all.’
‘Why don’t you just get Dame Fairhaven to heal it?’ Fletcher asked.
‘The healing spell only works for flesh wounds, remember? If you start messing about with healing bones, they fix crooked. Trust me, I’ve asked. I want a crack at Tarquin as much as you do, maybe even more so. But I know that I wouldn’t stand a chance.’
‘Look, it might not matter anyway,’ Fletcher argued, pointing down the corridor. ‘Tarquin may have beaten Seraph, but Sylva beat Isadora. Sylva and Tarquin are fighting right now to see who goes to the final. If she wins, I’m going to tap out. The dwarves need one of their own to make it as a finalist; it will impress the generals more. I can say I have concussion. That’s half true anyway.’
He rubbed the cut on his head, where the stone had struck. The injury had almost been a blessing in a way. When Scipio saw the broken skin, he immediately realised that there had been foul play. The Provost had suggested that Zacharias and the Favershams take a break and had replaced them with more impartial nobles, who would shield Fletcher properly for the next fight.
There was a rumbling noise from Othello’s cell. Solomon was groaning in distress. He paced around the cell, before stopping to stroke the splint on Othello’s leg. Ignatius chirred sympathetically, lapping Fletcher’s face with a wet tongue.
‘I’ll be fine, Ignatius. Tarquin doesn’t know about the tattoos. He’s going to underestimate us,’ Fletcher whispered.
Sir Caulder rapped on the cage bars with his staff, making Fletcher jump.
‘Come on, you two. Battle’s over.’
‘Did Sylva win?’ Fletcher asked as Sir Caulder unlocked the cells.
‘See for yourself,’ the old soldier said grimly.
Dame Fairhaven and Scipio were carrying Sylva out on a stretcher. Her arms, legs and face were black and blue, with a terrible lump on the side of her head. Sariel staggered behind them, her tail between her legs. The Canid’s fur was matted with blood, and there was a nasty scratch along her side that ran from snout to tail.
‘He hit Sylva with a kinetic blast,’ Scipio said, glancing at their worried faces. ‘She landed badly. We don’t know the extent of the damage yet.’
‘Poor girl, she had to fight both twins, one after the other,’ Dame Fairhaven said, shaking her head. ‘She used most of her mana in the first round, and then it took all her physical strength to beat Isadora, so she was exhausted when she went up against Tarquin. She put up a hell of a fight though. Nobody will go away thinking that the elves are weak,’ Dame Fairhaven said, her voice laced with sympathy.
‘With a head injury like this, it’s not safe to heal her, especially if her skull is damaged. We’re going to let her rest in the infirmary. If she wakes up, we will let you know.’
Fletcher clenched his fists, looking at the broken body on the stretcher.
‘Let’s go.’
Fletcher helped the dwarf limp into the arena. He remembered helping Atilla the same way; remembered the blood that trickled down his back as he carried him. The tears on Othello’s face when he saw they were alive. The Forsyths were the centre of it all, like a fat spider in the centre of a web of deceit. Fletcher was going to make them pay for what they had done.