Ballanor wasted no time in launching a violent attack, and her breath caught as Val reacted—almost too late—flinging his head back as the tip of Ballanor’s sword whistled beneath his chin.
Bard.
Val stepped forward, taking advantage of Ballanor’s slight overcommitment by sweeping his heavy longsword low. Ballanor jumped, only just clearing the sword, before leaping forward and smashing a flurry of punches into Val’s head with his free hand.
Val spun in a cloud of dust, wings held tight in against his back, swinging out of Ballanor’s reach and away. He was clear.
There was another clanging round of brutal thrusts, and Alanna could see both men’s chests heaving with exertion, Val’s face red and puffy where Ballanor had landed his blows. But no blood. Thank the Bard.
She winced, wishing she could close her eyes, somehow make it all go away. But knowing she could not.
Mathos stepped back to have some kind of whispered argument with Dornar that she didn’t have time to listen to.
Ballanor swung savagely toward Val, who lifted his sword and met him midair. Both swords held, locked, as the men strained, trembling with the effort, working to overpower each other.
Alanna could see Ballanor’s lips moving, but his words were too low for her to hear. Whatever they were, they incensed Val, whose wings flared out behind him like dark sails as he threw himself violently against the deadlock.
Ballanor gave, just enough that the swords scraped each other’s length with an earsplitting screech, and the two men spun apart, retreating to catch their breaths.
Keely stepped closer beside her, taking the space that Mathos had left, her face pale and lips tight. Tor stood beside her, looking even darker and more thunderous than usual, but Alanna noticed that he leaned in, ever so slightly, toward Keely. Despite whatever had happened between them to make her so angry that morning, Keely—seemingly unaware that she was doing it—leaned back against him.
Ballanor whispered something more, still too low to be heard, and Alanna saw the rage building in Val. But he held it, controlled himself.
A hideously familiar mottled red flush spread over Ballanor’s neck and up his face; he was getting angry, increasingly annoyed by Val’s self-discipline. She shuddered, chest tight. When Ballanor looked at her like that he—
“Would you like a drink, Your Majesty?” Dornar asked, his soft voice interrupting her thoughts yet again. “If you don’t want to join your people in the pavilion, perhaps I can bring something for you?”
She glanced back to where Dornar stood with Mathos gripping his arm, surprised to see just how very angry Mathos was, his entire face gleaming red and gold, fully battle scaled.
He was enraged with Dornar, but he was also angry with her, and she flinched at the hard look he gave her. Mathos was her friend; her smiling, charming, flirting friend. Or so she had thought. She looked at him uncertainly, not knowing what she’d done wrong. “Mathos?”
“He’s doing this on purpose!” Mathos growled. “Every time he speaks to you, Val loses his mind.”
Alanna flicked her eyes towards Dornar, who held his hands up placatingly and gave her a kind smile. “I’m just trying to do what the king asked.”
Alanna narrowed her eyes. What exactly had the king asked? She looked between the two men, smiling Dornar and snarling Mathos, and she knew exactly who she trusted. She dipped her chin to Mathos and then turned to Dornar. “You have to go. Right now.”
“Of course,” Dornar replied smoothly, turning to go. But before anyone moved, there was a rough gasp from the Hawks, and Nim went rigid beside her.
She spun back frantically, in time to see the two men grappling ferociously in the dirt. Ballanor was straddling Val, pinning him with his heavier weight, fighting to get his hands around Val’s neck while he bucked and rolled beneath him.
With a massive heave, Val spread his wings and used them to propel himself upright, throwing Ballanor off his body to fly through the air and smash into the ground several feet back.
Val stepped closer, cautiously, the tip of his sword pointed toward the king as Ballanor rolled onto his side.
Alanna held her breath as Val gave the king time to get up. A dark part of her wished he would just slash out and cut the king, even while knowing he never would.
Ballanor climbed slowly to his feet as Val waited, gesturing for him to give up. But the king only laughed, a loud mocking sound of derision. And then the king threw himself forward, at the same time flinging a huge handful of sand and dirt from the floor of the arena straight into Val’s face.
Val roared, falling back blindly, arms raised as the king pounced. Ballanor held his sword high as he lunged, knocking Val’s curved longsword from his hand.
Val stepped back, weaponless, and Ballanor leaped forward, thrusting his blade up with lethal brutality, straight toward Val’s exposed face.
Val flung his left arm up, his gauntlet connecting with the tip of Ballanor’s sword, both men crashing bodily together as the sword deflected, and then they fell, still grappling, back into the sand.
She couldn’t see what was happening. The two men rolled together, locked in some kind of vicious struggle on the ground, but the dust obscured them. Had Ballanor cut Val with that thrust? Was Val already bleeding onto the dark soil of the arena?
Her free hand crept up to her throat as she tried, and failed, to swallow against the dryness in her mouth.
