Was it too late to revive Durak?
Oralla dropped into a stalk, circling Quentin. Keeping still, Quentin scanned the sands, doing everything in his power to control his panicked breathing.
Killing a fucking seven-foot-tall man was one thing. Butthis?
If he survived, Mariah was going to kill him.
The crowds above rose their taunting and shouting to a deafening roar. Oralla stopped her pacing, flexing her deadly claws into the sands.
Well. Here goes nothing.
Oralla launched across the pit with a fighting snarl just as Quentin dived into the sands.
His hands closed around the smooth, familiar handles of his daggers. Oralla twisted in the air above him. Searing pain erupted across his exposed back. His vision blurred, lights dotting the sand.
Something thumped heavily beside him. Blinding pain coursed through him. Gritting his teeth and clenching his trembling hands around his daggers, Quentin pushed himself up and spun, landing in a crouch.
The great white cat leaped to her feet, shaking the sands from her thick fur. Quentin’s blood stained her front claws and her deadly fangs were bared in a snarl.
Hot blood rolled down Quentin’s back. It dripped into the sands below him.
Don’t think about that right now.Win.
His mouth pulled into a sly smirk. “Here, kitty kitty.”
Nah, screw winning. He really did just have a death wish.
Oralla narrowed her pale eyes.
When she shot forward again, Quentin was ready.
Ignoring the screaming fire in his back, he twisted to the side just before the cat struck him square in the chest. Her fur brushed his arm as he stood to his full height and slammed his dagger into her shoulder, red blooming across white.
He kept his grip on his dagger tight as her momentum carried her past him. The dagger stayed buried in her flesh, dragging down her side. It finally wrenched free when it reached her hindquarter, leaving a ruby arch behind.
Oralla hit the sands with a piercing yowl of pain. Above, the crowds again fell silent.
Quentin whirled, still clutching his bloodied daggers. Oralla pushed to her feet. She wavered, her entire right side stained with blood, her stance unsteady.
They stared at each other across the pit, panting heavily, their respective bloods tarnishing the golden sands.
“Please,” Quentin murmured. “We don’t have to do this. Don’t make me kill you.”
The cat bared her teeth, snarling viciously, even as blood dribbled from her mouth. Even as her leg nearly gave out beneath her when she tried to take a faltering step forward.
Quentin flipped his dagger in his right hand. His heart pounded in his ears, louder than the drums beating above them.
“Very well.” He raised his right hand, dagger hanging from his relaxed grip. A throwing grip.
He knew what this was. Oralla was a warrior; she would never yield. Not unless commanded to stop. But her blood was still pouring over the sands, and the brilliance of her eyes dimmed with each pound of their hearts.
This would be a mercy kill, one warrior to another.
Quentin cocked his arm. Oralla dropped into an unsteady crouch. He inhaled sharply, steadying his aim?—
“Stop!”
The drums fell silent as the command rang out across the pits, enhanced by whatever tool Koury had used.
