The struggle slowed, the men holding each other in relentless grips as they subsided into a heap of dirty armor.
As the dust settled, it looked like the intricate twists of the jeweled guard plate of Ballanor’s sword had caught in Val’s gauntlet. The two men were using their free hands to pummel each other, neither able to take control of the sword locked between them.
The king straddled Val once more, gripping him around the throat, and Val responded by reaching up and throttling Ballanor in return. They lay together in the dust, locked in a slow wrestle, a battle for who could survive the longest without air.
Their movements grew more sluggish, slowed, and stopped completely. Ballanor slumped forward and lay heavily over Val, pinning him.
Neither of them moved.
Chapter Twenty-One
“How long untilshe’s carrying my heir, do you think?” Ballanor grunted, tightening his hold on Val’s throat.
Val gritted his teeth and held on, tightening his fingers around that thick neck, choking away the foul words. Ignoring the burning pain as his eyes streamed.
Ballanor had been whispering all the things he was going to do to Alanna since they stepped into the arena. But he hadn’t let it get to him. He’d kept his focus on the fight.
Right up until he saw Dornar standing next to Alanna, talking to her, holding her arm, trying to lead her away. Fuck.
In a blinding, roiling surge of horror, he had realized that she didn’t know what Dornar had said about his arrangement with the king. What the two of them had planned. No one else knew.
And that moment of earth-shattering realization had nearly cost him everything. That one second of distraction was all that Ballanor had needed.
But nothing would make him lose his concentration again. Nothing could induce him to give the sadistic bastard even one more chance. He tightened his grip and held on as they rolled through the dirt once more, kicking and wrestling.
He could feel Ballanor still trying to free his sword arm. Val had caught the thrust in his gauntlet, moving entirely on instinct, and then, still almost completely blind, he had twisted his arm around the locked sword to grip Ballanor’s wrist in a crushing hold, knowing that if he slipped just a little, he would have a blade in his face.
Somehow, the movement had trapped the winding jeweled iron of Ballanor’s guard plate in the buckles of Val’s gauntlet.
One good flick and Ballanor would be free. But Val couldn’t allow it. He gripped Ballanor’s arm and held on relentlessly, as they both abandoned their battle for control of the sword and focused on choking the life out of each other with their free hands.
He still couldn’t see—his eyes burned and watered through the grit—but he knew he couldn’t let go until he had a better hold on Ballanor.
Had Ballanor managed to nick him? Was there blood? Gods.Please don’t let there be any blood.
But somehow the king was growing more sluggish, his foul whispers slurring as he became heavier and less responsive. Perhaps the chokehold was finally succeeding? Or was it more deception? Fucking Ballanor. Using the oldest, dirtiest trick imaginable.
Ballanor’s fingers slowly relaxed and Val took his first full breath as the king collapsed completely, twitching and sweating, lying bulky against Val, pinning him into the hard earth.
Val twisted his wrist, freeing the king’s sword to fall into the dust, but Ballanor didn’t seem to notice. What the hell was happening?
He lay undecided in the dirt for a few seconds, and then rolled heavily, thrusting Ballanor off him and away as he sprung back to his feet. The grounds blurred as his eyes streamed, and he waited, fists raised, ready for another double-cross. For a sword to come flying toward his face.
Instead, Ballanor rolled to all fours and heaved convulsively as he vomited. He gasped for breath, and then vomited again.
Val leaped back, wiping his eyes, confused about what was happening as the king retched and gagged in the dirt.
He took another step back, uncertain, as the Nephilim joined the field. Ramiel and Haniel strode forward, flanked by six of their Clibanarii.
Haniel ran to the king, calling for more healers as he crouched beside him. Ballanor shuddered and then, still retching, collapsed on his side as more Nephilim arrived to help. He shivered, groaning brokenly, and then went still.
The healers stepped back as Haniel rested his hand on the king’s forehead and then cast a long look over Ballanor’s twisted body. He stood slowly, shaking his head. “He’s dead.”
“He’s what?” Val rasped through his bruised throat, only half aware of the crowd of Hawks and courtiers flooding the field, trying to reach him and Ballanor but being held back by the Nephilim. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“It looks like he’s been poisoned,” Haniel admitted gravely.
Dornar growled as he pushed through the soldiers, forcing a path toward the Nephilim healer, his face grim, copper-colored scales flickering. He raised his arm, and then with a self-righteous glare, pointed straight at Val. “There’s only one way that could be true—this man has dishonored the sanctity of the challenge and has poisoned the king.”
