“Weapons!” cried the editorii.
The great circular platform in the center of the arena groaned, and Mia saw a dozen blades of differing lengths rise hilt-first from the sands. There were shortswords, longblades, and the cruel, curved scimitars that the Exile favored. All of them were black, razor-edged, gleaming in the sunslight.
“We have to run for our swords?” Bladesinger muttered.
“Aye,” Mia nodded. “But be warned—they’re all made of obsidian, not steel. They’ll be sharp as glass, but they’re fragile. You’ll only get a few swings before they’re useless. Block with your shields, not your blades.”
“How do you know this?” Furian demanded.
“Does it fucking matter?” she snarled. “Let’s just get this done.”
“No witchery, Crow,” he warned. “We will earn this laurel, or a glorious death.”
Bladesinger looked between the pair. “Stand together or fall alone, remember?”
“Gladiatii!” the editorii called. “Prepare!”
Mia coiled like a sprinter, eyes on a pair of twin swords in the center of the ring.
“Good luck, sister,” Bladesinger said. “Brother. Lady of Oceans protect you.”
“Aye,” Furian nodded. “Aa bless and keep you, Tsana guide your hands.”
Mia blinked the sweat from her eyes. The crowd was thunder in her ears. She looked out into the seething mob, searching for a girl with dyed red hair and eyes blue as sunsburned skies. Her shadow was trembling at its edges, ebbing like water toward Furian’s own.
“Mother watch over us,” she whispered.
“Gladiatii!” the editorii roared. “Begin!”
Mia took off, sprinting hard as she could. Breath burning in her lungs, glare fixed on those swords, the silkling sprinting at them from the opposite end of the arena as the crowd bellowed. Bladesinger charged just a few steps behind her, long legs pumping smoothly, Furian bringing up the rear.
Mia reached the edge of their platform, vaulting the gap to the next. The wedge shifted under her feet, swinging clockwise, those colossal gears grinding below her. Sand crunched under her boots and she leapt across to the next tier of smaller wedges, closer to the arena’s heart. Her eyes were on the silkling, running hard, drawing ever closer to those gleaming, black blades. Heart sinking as she realized …
… she’s going to get there first.
Mia reached out across the shifting platforms, the swirling sands, the mighty gears. Her shadow trembled as she took hold of the silkling’s own, snarled it in her boots. Ishkah hissed, stumbling momentarily as Mia dashed toward the central plinth. But with a curse, she felt her grip on the shadows break, and Ishkah’s feet slip free.
Fucking Furian …
“No witchery!” he shouted behind her.
Ishkah made the central platform, six hands snaking out and seizing the hilts of six cruelly curved scimitars. The crowd roared, sunslight gleaming on obsidian. The silkling wheeled about as Mia leapt onto the plinth, three of her swords glittering as they scythed through the air, right at Mia’s throat. With a gasp, the girl dove left, hit the sand with her shoulder and rolled, under the whistling blades and behind Ishkah. And with a gasp, Mia seized hold of two swords and dragged them free.
She turned just as Ishkah struck, her blades a blur. Mia dare not block the strikes edge on edge—the obsidian might shatter if she struck at the wrong angle, and Ishkah had swords to spare. Instead she danced away, sand flying, twisting left and right and bending backward, spine extended, one of the strikes whipping just over her chin. Tumbling back, she rolled up into a crouch right at the platform’s edge, wobbling precariously over a shifting sea of grinding metal cogs.
Bladesinger roared as she barreled into Ishkah from behind, shield crunching into the silkling’s back and sending her flying. Ishkah fell forward, off the platform and onto another passing below, rolling up to her feet. Those pale, featureless eyes glinted as she watched Mia regain her balance, Bladesinger snatch up an obsidian longblade. Ishkah took a few steps toward Furian, but he was too far out of reach, finally vaulting up to the central plinth and snatching up another obsidian sword. The Unfallen raised his blade in the air, the crowd bellowing in reply. The race was over, the competitors all armed. Now, the battle could begin in earnest.
Ishkah opened her arms, scimitars poised in a glittering fan, and without a sound, leapt back across to the central plinth. The three Falcons moved to meet her, Mia dashing out first, quick as silver and striking low. Bladesinger struck mid, her shield guarding Mia, while Furian swung at the silkling’s head. Ishkah moved with stunning grace, slipping aside from Bladesinger and Mia’s strikes. But as she raised one of her blades to counter Furian, the haft shattered like the thinnest ice.
The silkling rallied, scimitars cutting the air. She put a savage kick into Bladesinger’s shield, knocking the smaller woman off-balance. Her swords opened up a shallow cut on Furian’s arm. One of her blades whistled past Mia’s throat and scraped her breastplate, splitting the leather wide. And drawing a breath, Ishkah parted those cloud-white lips in a snarl, and spat a mouthful of bright green venom right at Mia’s face.
“… beware…!”
Mia gasped, twisting desperately and turning her head. The liquid hit the side of her helm, spattering thick. As it touched the metal, the venom hissed, eating through the iron like a heated blade into snow. Mia rolled out of reach, tearing her helm loose and blinking hard. None had got in her eyes, on her skin, but Goddess, that was close …