I don’t let him finish. If I do, I might let him talk me out of this.
Instead, I let my terror drown in his words. Before he can stop me, I take off in a sprint across the arena, gaze fixed on Kaidren Vale.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THE TRUE QUEEN OF WIDOW'S HALL
I’m winded within seconds. It’s embarrassing, but in my defense the length of the arena looks smaller from the end than it feels when actually running it.
My path to Kaidren is curved. I sprint around the wall of soldiers slamming into each other and cling to the perimeter, closer to the stands of onlookers.
I ignore them, forcing everything into the background except for my opponent on the other side of the wide, snowy field.
From the corner of my eye, I see another one of Kaidren’s soldiers drop to the ground. It’s a good sign, but I don’t look to see if he gets back up, or react as the crowd roars in response. I tune it out and run faster.
Kaidren stands behind the wall of soldiers, as Luc does, watching it all unfold. He’s so rapt by the violence, he doesn’t notice my approach. Not until I’m close enough that my footsteps capture his attention.
His head snaps in my direction.
I’m wearing a mask, and he isn’t. I read his fear in the whites of his eyes and scrunch of his brow. He’s weaponless, with no formal training, and he thinks I’m an experienced soldier.
I scan his imposing figure, assessing for his weakest points.
Eyes, knees, groin, feet, sides.I chant Flynn’s advice to myself.
Kaidren is tall, and he gave his sword to a disarmed soldier. My most effective tool—magic—has already been drained from the tshira I carry with me, so my only weapon is the small knife in my pocket. I intend to use it to get him in the death position, but first, I need to bring him to his knees. Get his throat within easy striking distance.
Kaidren raises his hands to block himself at my approach. It leaves his sides unguarded, so I swing a fist at his left flank.
My hope is to exploit the small advantage that I’ve had at least some training with—
Kaidren captures my fist, and with it, my brief hope that this will be easy.
My throat dries and I jab with my other hand, striking him on his unguarded side.
Kaidren doesn’t even blink.
The decurio uniforms have flexible leather stitched around the ribs, which, unfortunately, provides enough padding to block the sensation of my feeble punches.
Dammit.
New strategy—exploit his only weakness: he can’t multi-task. He was too focused on capturing one hand to deflect the other.
I kick him in the shin.
That gets a flinch out of him, sharp enough I can tug my wrist out of his hold and jerk back.
We circle each other, silent and wary.
I lunge first, aiming a punch at his gut.
He clumsily bats my hand away, but as he does, I kick his shin again.
That earns me another flinch, but it does little to weaken him overall.
Kaidren and I skate over snow in a jumble of uncoordinated limbs and ineffective hits.
I might be smaller and more nimble than he is, but it’s only slightly helpful. After two minutes of hitting his sides and kicking his knees, I’m no closer to knocking him over than I was when this started. My problem isn’t speed or accuracy. It’s impact.
