The Valiant (The Valiant #1)(92)

“Do it!” I shouted again. “Hold . . . hold . . . now! Veer sharp!”

Aeddan fought with the reins, sawing the bits into the horses’ mouths as we hurtled toward the arena wall. I heard Aeddan cursing loudly with the effort. And then, suddenly, the beasts gave in, leaning into the turn so sharply that our chariot went up on one wheel and almost flipped onto its side.

For a moment, we were free and clear of Nyx’s wheel hub.

“Elka!” I shouted at the top of my lungs. “Pick a number!”

She grinned madly and shouted back, “Thirteen!”

Then she drew her spear back, sighted, and threw . . .

The gleaming slender missile shot toward us and passed through the spokes of Nyx’s chariot wheel just as if Elka were in the ludus yard with her rotating practice target. The spear spun up against the chariot undercarriage, jamming the wheel. The chariot shot upward, arcing through air like it had been unleashed from a legion catapult.

I owe Elka a new spear, I thought.

Nyx screamed, arms and legs flailing frantically as she sailed up and over her horses’ heads. Her chariot burst into kindling, needle-sharp splinters of wood flying everywhere, and the horses, suddenly free of their traces, bolted wildly in opposite directions. I ducked my head as Nyx landed with bone-crunching impact on her shoulder in the sand and collapsed like a child’s cloth doll.

Aeddan eased the horses away from the swiftly nearing wall, back onto the straightaway portion of the track. We swept past the ranks of the Achillea gladiatrices, where Elka stood watching us with her mouth agape and Ajani stood behind a picket line of flaming arrows ready to be nocked. Aeddan pulled back on the reins, but I slapped his shoulder.

I wasn’t finished yet.

“No!” I shouted. “Make them run faster!”

He shot me a look but let the reins slide out through his hands.

“Ajani!” I shouted, waving my arm in the direction of where the grotesque, wicker effigies—the supposed dark, barbaric gods of Britannia—stood leering at the far end of the arena. “Pick me a target!” I shouted. “Light it up and show us the way!”

With a wild grin, Ajani plucked one of the flaming missiles from the burning pitch trench in front of her. She drew, sighted, and loosed. And again. And again.

In rapid succession, flaming arrows arced over the heads of our galloping chariot horses, illuminating a path like a trail of shooting stars toward the center effigy.

“Faster!” I called.

Aeddan gave the horses their head, and they were running full-out, necks stretched long and ears flat. Before Aeddan realized what I was doing and could reach out to stop me, I’d slipped past him and swung my legs over the low front barrier of the chariot car. Then I climbed out onto the draft pole that ran between the two horses and attached to their yolks. A fleeting image of Sorcha, balanced and flying, arms outstretched, danced across my mind. I banished it before I could imagine her falling. Before the wheels of the chariot ran right over her—

“Fallon!” Aeddan screamed at me. “What are you doing?”

“The Morrigan’s Flight!” I answered, reaching back to grab the two spears that rested in hooks hanging off the chariot’s sidewall.

“You’re mad! It can’t be done—”

“Shut up and drive!”

I held the spears out in front of me for balance and, without letting myself overthink what I was about to do, stepped out along the pole, one foot in front of the other. I concentrated on Ajani’s path of arrows. The chariot flew over the flaming markers, and I saw them pass beneath my feet. Then Ajani fired her last shot, and it stuck not in the ground but in the leering wicker god. The effigy roiled with flame, and the arrow was followed close behind by my hard-flung spears—one through the heart, and one to a supporting leg. The whole construct buckled to one side and sank slowly to the ground, wreathed in fire, as if I’d just brought the god of the Britons to his knees. The crowd roared approval. I shifted my weight forward and flung my arms out to the sides as Aeddan eased into the turn . . .

And like the Morrigan herself, I flew.

The entire audience was on its feet cheering ecstatically as we did a victory lap and Aeddan guided the lathered horses to a halt near Caesar’s canopied box. I slid to the ground, wobbly legged and dizzy, and spun in a mad, careening circle, thrusting my clenched fists skyward and shouting hoarsely. Aeddan leaped from the deck of the chariot and, caught up in the mad thrill of our win, whooped with joy and threw his arms around me.

And for a moment, it wasn’t Aeddan. It was Mael.

The same gray eyes, the same build, his hair even smelled the same. I melted into the embrace, and his arms tightened around me. But he whispered my name, and it wasn’t Mael’s voice. I thrust Aeddan away from me with every drop of strength I still possessed. Then I cocked my armored fist back and plowed it into his face. He dropped to the arena sands, senseless, at my feet.

And the crowd went absolutely rabid with delight.

Victory was mine. Victory was me.

I’d shown the mob just how Rome had conquered the wild warriors of Brittania—through fighting, allegiances, betrayals, romancing, and rebuke—and they loved me for it. The breath heaved in and out of my chest. I threw my arms wide again and turned in a slow circle, and the roar of the crowd thundered over me.

And then, when a handsome young decurion in full ceremonial armor suddenly ran down the steps of the spectator stands, leaping the barrier into the arena to sweep me into a passionate embrace, I thought the cheers would bring the stones of the Circus Maximus tumbling down. When Cai set me back on my feet, I cocked my fist again—in jest this time—and when I didn’t punch him but kissed him, long and slow on his glorious mouth . . .