Sweep of the Heart (Innkeeper Chronicles #5)(86)

Tony was moving things around below. No trace of the stage remained, the floor of the arena once again empty. Stone pillars, each just large enough to support a human foot, emerged from the stone tiles, rising to different heights. The shortest was fifty-five feet tall, the tallest three feet higher, with a few feet of open ground between them.

Tony grouped the pillars into a twisted path that veered left, then right, then left again. Three platforms appeared, flanking the trail where it curved. Each platform supported a long pole protruding above the trail with three bags filled with sand attached to the top of the poles on long ropes. The bags rested on the platforms.

Obviously, an obstacle course. High-risk, entertaining, and, best of all, no small animals were likely to be harmed. Perfect.

“Ready?” Gaston asked me.

I hid the tables with refreshments. “I can’t wait.”

“And we’re back! Please give a warm welcome to our next candidate, Lady Bestata of House Meer.”

Bestata approached the first pillar, jumped, catching it with her hands, and climbed to the top, standing on one foot.

“For this demonstration,” Gaston announced, “We will need volunteers.”

The entire otrokar section stood up.

“We will only need three. Please pick among yourselves.”

A brief scuffle ensued while I made the individual bridges from the otrokar section to the platforms. Three otrokars emerged and took their places on the platforms.

“As Lady Bestata makes her way to the other end of this treacherous path, please do your best to knock her off the pillars and down to the floor of the arena using the sandbags available to you.”

“A savok from my stable to the first person to bring her down!” Surkar roared.

There were few things the otrokars prized more than savok mounts.

“Only using the sandbags!” Gaston added. “She must touch the ground for your throw to count. Are you ready, Lady Bestata?”

She tied a length of black cloth over her eyes. “Ready.”

The crowd murmured in appreciation, anticipating a good show. Kosandion leaned forward, his face showing only interest. No traces of outrage remained. It was still there, he was just hiding it.

A bell tolled. Bestata unsheathed two long, slender swords and leaped onto the next pillar, running across them like they were solid ground. The crowd cheered.

She dashed toward the first bend in the pillar path. The otrokar on the platform next to it grabbed the first bag and swung it at Bestata. She shied back, poised on the toes of her left foot, leaning dangerously back on the pillar, her swords held out at her sides for balance. The bag whistled in front of her. She sprinted forward, and the bag swung back like a giant pendulum, hurtling through the spot she just left.

The second bag missed her by half a second. The third went too wide, spinning a full foot away from the vampire knight. Another moment, and Bestata was out of range, running toward the next platform.

The next otrokar, a large red-haired female, bet on strategy rather than speed. She spun the first bag, sending it in a circle toward Bestata, grabbed the second bag, aimed it slightly to her right, and let it go. The first bag curved, slicing through the air. Somehow the vampire knight sensed it coming and leaped to a pillar on the side, right into the path of the second bag.

The crowd froze.

The second bag flew toward her, straight at her chest. Bestata swung her left sword. The black blade whined, priming, and the bag plunged to the bottom of the arena, sliced in half, its sand spilling like victory confetti.

The spectators roared.

Bestata sprinted. The otrokar swung the third bag, but it was too late.

In the observers’ section, Karat leaned forward, laser-focused on Bestata, clearly reevaluating her threat potential. Dagorkun shook his hands and bellowed in his battle voice, “Throw the damn bag! Don’t swing it, idiots, throw it!”

The third otrokar, a lean, powerfully muscled older male, clearly a veteran, must have heard him. I was pretty sure people all the way in Dallas probably would’ve heard him if I hadn’t soundproofed the arena.

The veteran grasped the bag with one hand, leaned back like a javelin-thrower, and let it loose. The bag tore through the air and smashed into Bestata just as her right foot touched the next pillar. The bag exploded into a fountain of sand. For a torturous half second, she teetered on the verge of falling fifty feet to the sand floor below.

If she fell, it would hurt. A drop that large would damage even a vampire in syn-armor.

If she fell, I had to catch her.

Bestata leaped backward, her arms spread like wings, turning her fall into a jump. Her right sword plunged to the ground. She threw her right arm out, above her head as she flew, and just as her body began to fall, she caught another pillar with her hand and clung to it.

The crowd screamed, House Meer in triumph and Surkar’s delegation in outrage.

“He hit her, he hit her square in the chest! It’s over!” Someone howled from the otrokar section.

“No part of her touched the ground!” House Meer screamed back.

The veteran otrokar on the last platform hefted the second bag, took aim, and threw it. Bestata flexed her arm and leaped straight up, onto the pillar. The bag smashed against the stone, missing her by a hair.

Bestata charged forward, leaping with inhuman grace.

The veteran snarled, grabbed the rope of the last bag, and jerked it down. The top of the pole snapped. He caught it, ripped the rope from it, tore the bag off, and swung the rope like a lasso.