Frostblood (Frostblood Saga #1)(58)
The announcer introduced more animals and more traitors. More cries of pain, more growling and snapping and cheers. I was dizzy and sick and no longer comprehending things clearly. When I looked up again, a blue-and-white-striped tiger was lifting its bloody muzzle from a prone body as its handler threw a harness over the animal’s head and led it from the arena.
“And now, good people,” said the announcer, his voice cheerful and clear, “for a rare treat, the Firebeak will face our most seasoned champions.”
Six armored warriors entered the arena. The bird was pulled out by two handlers, who struggled to keep it controlled. The creature’s eyes rolled wildly, its talons clawing the dirt as it bucked against the leash. The handlers released it and ran for the arena door as the bird shook off its harness and breathed a cloud of fire, the flame making orange light dance along the ice.
The champions raised their shields and sent out streams of frost from their hands. Ice formed on the bird’s feathers. It breathed another cloud of fire that faded to a puff of smoke. The men retreated.
Streams of frost and fire shot back and forth. The champions kept moving back. They were clearly afraid of the fire. Hope expanded in my chest. The bird was fast. It whipped back and forth, spewing fire in thin streams aimed right at the men’s faces. It seemed like the bird would never run out of energy or fire.
But my hope didn’t last. The champions spread out in a wide circle until the bird was in the center. As soon as it breathed its fire at one man, another came at its back, too quickly for it to block. The bird was wily and tried to avoid the frost, but there were just too many men and eventually it was hit from all sides and fell. The warriors rushed forward as a group. A stream of fire erupted upward as six arms were raised and six spears came down. A second cloud of fire, smaller this time, floated upward, followed by a puff of smoke. More raising and lowering of spears and more cheers from the crowd. As the champions left the arena and the dust settled, the bird was still. It looked so small, its beak too delicate, its feathers incongruously bright against the dull ground. Its long neck was bent strangely, bringing to mind another memory of a delicately bent neck surrounded by dark hair.
Everything came into sharp focus. The pain and suffering of the animal cut me deeply.
The Firebeak was dragged from the arena, and the regular matches began, each more brutal than the last. At first, raggedly dressed men with short swords or knives faced each other. When it was too much, I closed my eyes, but I could hear the crowd cheering, the pained cries as sharp metal pierced flesh. The healer’s daughter in me ached with helpless fury at the cruelty, the needless waste.
By the third match, I was leaning against the wall, my legs completely numb. I finally let myself sink to the floor and realized my face was wet with tears.
“Get up, girl,” said a harsh voice. I looked up at Braka and her icy braids. “You’re a challenger now. There’s no room for tears.”
“You saw what they did to the Firebeak,” I said, my voice hoarse and cracking. “Is that what they plan for me?”
“You’re being allowed a fair fight against one champion,” she said, her eyes as steady as her voice. “You have as much chance as any other challenger. Don’t let them see you crying. Face them all like a warrior, whether you are one or not.”
Gathering my will, I pushed up and leaned against the wall as Braka walked away. I wanted to tell her that I didn’t care about honor, but instead I said a prayer to Sud and went back to the doorway, watching as the fighters went from raggedly dressed peasants to men in leather armor with gleaming swords.
The fight that drew the most excitement was between two gifted Frostbloods with no weapons but their hands and their ice. I tried to take in the attacks and parries, hoping it might help me somehow. When one of the Frostblood fighters finally slipped and fell, the other one finished him off with a shard of ice through his throat. I turned away as the champion basked in the crowd’s approval.
“You’re next, Fireblood,” said Braka in a low rumble. “The names have been drawn and you’re to fight Gravnach… one of the most favored champions.”
From the opposite side of the arena, wooden doors opened and out walked a bear of a man. He was dressed in black leather with bright steel armor covering one arm from shoulder to wrist. And here I saw what Doreena had meant about winning the crowd. This man knew how. He walked in wide circles, stopping to raise his arms and roar in a theatrical way. The crowd responded with wild cheers.
“At the sound of the gong, you fight,” Braka said. “Once it begins, it won’t stop until you’re dead. Die with honor, Fireling.”
It didn’t escape me that she no longer claimed I had a chance. I turned to look her in the eye, determined to show strength.
“You mean until Gravnach is dead.”
She smiled, showing a missing tooth, and gave a small dip of her chin before turning away.
I moved into the shadows near the arched entrance to the arena. Every contraction and release of my heart seemed to last a hundred years, the moments stretching into an eternity of agonized anticipation. The gong sounded and the moment snapped into focus.
I stepped into the arena, squinting into the glare. The shouts of adulation turned to a chorus of hoots and jeers. My chest grew tight. I fought a dizzy, overpowering need to run.
As my terrified gaze swept the crowd, the sun caught a bright flash of gold: the king in a raised viewing box bounded by elaborate filigree railings carved of ice. He wore a gold crown set with sapphires. If it weren’t for the searing cold in his dark eyes, I might have thought him beautiful, a warm golden idol sitting among the endless shades of blue. He had an air of lazy expectance, as if ready for some diversion but not sure it was worth his attention.