Mathos pushed away from the wall as his beast gave another low, agitated rumble deep in his gut.
Yeah. You and me, mate. We both know something stinks.
Chapter Twenty
A pairof kites wheeled high in the pale blue sky, their cries sharp and clear as they floated far above the temple complex and its huge tournament grounds. Removed from the lives and worries of the tiny people a hundred and fifty feet below them.
A bitter little breeze, smelling of the end of autumn and the cold of winter to come, swirled down the tournament area, lifting the dust from the compacted earth and flinging it at Alanna and the Hawks in stinging flurries.
Thank the Bard that the sun had been out long enough the previous afternoon to dry the rain, or Val and Ballanor would have been fighting in mud.
The tournament ground itself was a wide, flat area of cleared earth, big enough that the Nephilim could hold jousts, melees, or one-on-one challenges. The cleared area was enclosed by a tall wooden fence, no doubt to ensure that spectators didn’t accidentally find themselves suddenly surrounded by combatants.
The width of the tournament ground was flanked by a long defensive embankment, and behind that was a large tiered wooden grandstand. On either end of the enclosure, an open-sided pavilion was provided for combatants and their supporters, offering refreshments, seating, and some protection from the weather, but a restricted view unless you were right at the entrance gate.
Alanna stood on the banked area with the rest of the Hawks, too highly strung to sit with the company of silent Nephilim that had filed onto the grandstand behind them. Nim stood on her left, Mathos on her right with Keely beside him, the others spread out around them.
They were high enough to be able to look down into the lists, and close enough that they would see every moment of the battle.
She couldn’t decide whether that was a good thing or not. But she knew she had to be there, either way. She didn’t want to hide away in Val’s pavilion, not knowing what was going on. And she wanted him to know that she was there.
To the west, the king’s pavilion was filled with the courtiers and advisors who had accompanied him. They flitted around, drinking from silver goblets, their laughter carrying over the wind to where the Hawks stood, tense and silent.
The ranks of Blues that had accompanied Ballanor and Dornar on their hunt for the Hawks stood behind the king’s pavilion. Silent and watchful in their formation.
At the western gate, a few yards from the pavilion, Ballanor stood doing final armor checks with Dornar and one of the Blues. The king was a big man, not as big as Tor, but muscular, like all Apollyon. He was wearing a deep purple tunic—bearing his crest of two snarling boars locked in battle—over his armor, and his hair was pulled back into a tight queue. His vambraces bore the harsh swirling lines of his family tattoos, representing the tribal markings beneath them. He looked powerful, almost majestic.
Bard.
She believed in Val. Utterly. But she was terrified for him too.
The challenge was to first blood, but that might not stop Ballanor. Even if it did, first blood could still kill a man. And Val had been hurt so many times already.
She tried to remind herself that Val was the better swordsman. And that if some disaster were to strike, the Nephilim would step in and keep everyone alive. But it didn’t help.
She turned her head to watch Val where he stood at the eastern gate, speaking quietly with Tristan in front of their empty pavilion.
He was breathtakingly masculine, his dark hair drawn back and held with a leather tie, his silver-gray wings unfurled and open behind him as if he might launch himself into the air at any moment.
Val was wearing Nephilim armor, gleaming white in the watery sunshine. The golden angel on his breastplate caught the light as he moved, so that it almost seemed that she too might suddenly burst into flight.
He was magnificent. And he was down there for her.
It occurred to her that Val could have walked away from her at any time and never had. During all the long months that she had held him to his promise of silence, giving him nothing in return, he had never faltered. It humbled her to think of what he had given up for her.
Bard, she loved him so much. She could not imagine a single day without him. If she lost him now…. No, she wouldn’t think about it. She was almost numb with fear as it was. She had to show him that she could be as brave for him as he was for her. No matter what.
She wiped her hands down her leather breeches, trying to dry her damp palms. It was a relief to be back in her own clothes, cleaned and re-stitched by the temple acolytes. They made her feel stronger. More capable and confident. These were the clothes she had worn to live with the Hawks, to become one of them.
She was about to run her palms down her legs once more—somehow they were already damp again—when Nim reached out and took her hand and held it tightly in her own.
It startled her to suddenly find her hand in someone else’s, but after a second she relaxed. Nim was her sister now. And the Bard knew, Nim was looking down at both Val and Tristan, her brother and her lover; whatever Alanna was feeling, it was worse for Nim.
She tried to give Nim a reassuring squeeze and was rewarded with a small, determined smile.
Ramiel stepped forward and called the two combatants into the middle of the tournament ground. Tristan clapped Val on the shoulder and stepped back, while Dornar walked away from Ballanor, leaving the two warriors to walk alone toward the Supreme Justice.
“Supplicants, combatants, all those assembled here.” Ramiel’s voice rang out, deep with conviction and resonating with power, bringing the field to a breathless silence as everyone focused their attention on him.
