It was just far enough for his blade to take the place of where his body had been moments before. Just enough for the sharp edge to sink into the soft exposed flesh of Durak’s abdomen, to widen the wound made by his knife, to soak Quentin’s hands with his sticky blood.
A foul stench filled the air as Quentin leaped away, dragging the blade with him. He whirled on his heels, sword still lifted.
Durak stood still and straight. The crowds were booing loudly, calling to their champion. The giant slowly turned with staggered, lilting steps.
Well, now Quentin knew what that smell was.
His slice had struck deep and true. Durak’s intestines were freed from his body, hanging down to his knees. The crowds fell silent, disbelief washing over them.
Durak slowly sank to his knees. Light flickered in his eyes.
Quentin knew the look of a man on the precipice of death; he’d put many there himself. The giant’s lifeblood was pouring across the sands, soaking deep into the earth.
Quentin slipped his final dagger free from his baldric. Pressing a quick kiss to the blade, he cocked his wrist and sent it flying.
It buried to the hilt in Durak’s left eye. The giant pitched forward, sinking into the sands.
Dead.
Quentin heaved a sigh and fell to his knees, glancing up at the quiet crowd.
“This littleratbeat your champion,” he called hoarsely. “My queen’s honor stands. Release me.”
The crowd didn’t answer.
“Surprisingly well fought, Armature.” Koury’s disembodied voice came over whatever it was that amplified it. “I’ll admit, none here expected you to master the desert. Perhaps there is something to be said of the legends, after all.”
Quentin cracked a grin, wiping blood off his chin. “Thanks. Not the only thing I’m legendary at.” He couldn't see them, but he knew they were watching him. He tossed up his best wink, despite the bruises spreading across his face.
Silence crackled around them before Koury chuckled. “You misunderstand,” he said slowly. “This is not any ordinary fighting pit. The people of Kreah value honor above all else. If someone feels their honor has been wronged, they may take it here. To name a champion of their own or to fight themselves.”
“Wait.” Quentin’s mind was growing fuzzy, but he clung to Koury’s words. “I could have named a champion? Why the fuck didn’t you tell me that?”
“Because you are not fighting for your own honor. You offered to stand for your queen. Youvolunteered—as her champion.”
“And I won. If you value honor, then I have defended hers.”
“Foreigners,” Koury spat. “They never understand.” The crowd hissed. “Our traditions are old, boy. Many in the brighter parts of the city no longer wish to follow them. But here, to defend your honor, you must face the champion of the desert…and the champion of the sky.”
What?
That couldn’t mean…
The door across the pit again slowly creaked open.
“You may have bested the deserts, Armature, but the skies decide all our fates. Let us welcome Oralla, Fang of the Sky!”
The crowd again erupted as a slight figure, the opposite in every way to the fallen goliath, sauntered into the pit.
She wore thin leather armor and bore no weapons. Her hair was white as bone and hung long past her waist, her eyes as pale blue as the sky at the crest of day.
Quentin blinked. He’d learned long ago not to judge any opponent by their appearance. This woman, while carrying a fierce set to her shoulders, looked as unassuming as any.
When her eyes shifted into the slitted pupils of a cat, Quentin understood.
She may not look Kreah in appearance, but she certainly had Rulene’s magic.
The pale woman vanished in a flash of blinding blue light. In her place stood a massive white cat with cloud-gray streaks patterning her coat. Those same pale blue eyes shone out of a wide head, and twin fangs—each at least six inches long, daggers in their own right—arched from her upper jaw as her lips pulled back in a snarl.
