A soft groan slipped past Quentin’s teeth. He forced his eyes to stay open, the giant raising his fists to the audience. Quentin palmed his daggers then prodded his side with an elbow, nearly hissing from the pain.
He hadn’t even seen the man swing his fist. His ribs were badly bruised, for sure. Maybe even broken.
So, the giant wasn’t as slow as he looked. Splendid.
Durak lowered his gaze back to Quentin, victory already written across his face. Quentin forced himself to lay still as the goliath stalked near, raising his sword to his shoulder.
“Is this truly the best Onita has?” Durak spat in the sands. “Pathetic. I expected so much more.”
“Sorry…to disappoint,” Quentin wheezed. He told himself it was an act, that the pain in his voice was feigned.
But no. It was very much real.
Durak smiled wide, lifting his blade. Again exposing his midsection, drunk on his strength and victory and the caterwauling of the crowd.
This time, though, Quentin was ready.
The giant swung his broadsword down with a bellow, a killing blow. It again sank harmlessly into the sands, burrowing nearly to the hilt.
Quentin’s abdomen was on fire, but Durak’s blood spreading across the hilts of his daggers—one buried in the man’s side,hopefully puncturing a lung, the other sunken into the space between his thick neck and shoulder—helped with the pain.
Durak roared into the night, eyes swinging to Quentin, pain and fury etching across his scarred face. Above them, the crowd booed.
Quentin smirked. “First blood, assho?—”
Durak’s fist slammed into the side of his face, blacking out the beaming lights. Quentin flew to the packed sands, landing with a heavy, painful thump. He coughed, mouth filling with copper as he fought to stay conscious.
“Mashka,” Durak snarled, heavy footsteps staggering across the earth. Quentin hauled himself to all fours and forced his head up, spitting out a wad of blood.
The giant yanked Quentin’s dagger from his chest. Blood spurted down Durak’s side, staining the sands. He did the same to the knife in his shoulder, turning his bronze skin burgundy.
Idiot. That wound in his side definitely went as deep as Quentin thought it had. The fool would bleed out there on the sands.
Quentin supposed it didn’t matter if they both died. It only mattered who diedfirst.
That hulking monster of a man could take hours to bleed out. Even with a punctured lung.
Blood leaked from the sides of Durak’s mouth, but his dark eyes shone with violence and rage. “I have fought many battles, little rat,” he said, voice slightly muffled by the blood flooding his lungs and crawling up his throat. “I have won them all. I have earned the right to fight for the desert. The desert does not lose tomashka; it claims them.”
Ah, somashkamust mean rat.
“Funny,” Quentin said, pushing to his knees. He tried to ignore the way he wavered. “I always thought rats were the survivors. Like I said, I should’ve died long before tonight. Butsomehow, I just keep finding ways to come back for more.” His smile widened, even though it pained the rapidly forming bruises on his face.
He lifted a palm, holding it out flat in front of him.
Then he curled his fingers back to himself, beckoning.
Durak took the bait splendidly.
Snarling through the blood in his mouth, the giant threw himself across the pit, barreling straight for Quentin, broadsword left forgotten in the sands.
Quentin pulled every drop of training and strength to himself as he jumped to his feet, unslinging his short sword from the scabbard at his back.
Durak was still charging, but his steps were noticeably more sluggish and cumbersome. His arms reached for Quentin, hate glimmering in his eyes.
When he was no more than a foot away, Quentin moved.
He dived forward, slipping under the giant’s extended hands. Gripping tight to the leather pommel of his sword, he angled his hands up as he sidestepped to the right.
