Page 119 of Trial of Bronze and Blood
Cato immediately gallops off, another rider with a red Phaedran band on her arm trailing not far behind him.
Cato will outrun her; he’ll outrun all of them, Marcus reminds himself as he whips the reins of his own horse to follow, Dru keeping pace beside him. He has no idea if their plan will work, given the many ways it could go wrong, but he’d cut off his own arm before leaving Dru behind.
Dozens of hooves pound the dirt as some participants fall back while others surge ahead. Marcus keeps a solid pace on this wider straightaway, knowing he doesn’t want to take the first corner too fast.
Before they make it to the first turn, theshinkof a sword being unsheathed makes its way to him over the cacophony of hooves.Deodamnatus. He shouldn’t be surprised someone wants to draw blood so early in the competition, but it’s a nuisance all the same. He listens as one of the competitors comes up on his exposed flank, quickening their pace.
“Marcus,” Dru mutters without turning her head. “You’ve got a visitor.”
His horse galloping hard beneath him, he glances over his shoulder at his attacker: a piece of cloth covers their face, clothes loose on their small frame, a hooked sword gripped in their hand. A part of him wants to show mercy, given he can’t know who volunteered to be here and who was forced.
If they already have a sword in their hand, that means they want to be here.Someone forced into it would ride defensively and stay out of the way.
Marcus doesn’t plan to do that.
Deftly unsheathing his own sword, he waits until the other rider closes in. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches them lift their weapon to strike—when he thrusts his own sword backward. Theblade meets its mark at the center of their stomach, sinking into their flesh until he pulls it back out with a squelch. His attacker drops their weapon and clutches their midsection, their horse losing speed swiftly.
Marcus breathes out, wiping his sword on his tunic and sheathing it again. Luckily, they weren’t well-trained; any soldier would’ve put up a fight and forced him to lose control of his horse. Next time, he might not be so lucky.
Approaching the first bend to the right, the sea comes into view, revealing the treacherous cliffs and the unending gray clouds beyond. He cocks his head at Dru, and she maneuvers herself to the side furthest from the edge, allowing him to be more exposed. Given he’s the better rider between them, he can defend himself more easily to attacks.
Spectators line the hills opposite the cliffs, cheering and waving as they gallop by. Most of the competitors follow behind them, but concern hastens Marcus’s pulse. He can’t stop looking over his shoulder, watching the others close in on them.
The nearest rider to him pulls out his blade.
Marcus catches Dru’s eye, and she nods in understanding. Bringing his horse close to her, he hands her the single rein. With the other horse firmly in her grip, Marcus turns in his saddle sightly, finding the man almost upon them.
“Your sword,” Marcus commands after pulling his own from its sheath again.
She hands it to him. “This had better work.”
He smiles to himself as he grips both blades and throws her own words back at her. “Have faith in me.”
“Not as if you’ve given me a choice,” she mutters.
“Just keep your eyes forward,” he tells her.
Once the horse comes within reach, he swings one sword out at the horse’s front knee and the other at the competitor’s thigh before they can react, barely nicking them. It’s enough for the beast’s knees to buckle, throwing the man to the ground face-first. A plumeof dirt settles around the downed horse and his rider, lost among the rest of the competitors.
Marcus turns back and hands her the sword, regaining his seat and grabbing his rein from her before they go around another bend. The path—marked by thin posts staked into the dirt—takes them up a slight incline in the terrain, forcing them to slow.
Behind him, metal clashes, the distinct squish of a blade meeting its mark causing him to flinch. He glances back to see another competitor coming for them, wiping the blood from his sickle onto his tunic.
Once they make it to even ground, he whips the rein, hoping to lose the attacker. But Dru falls behind when he does, sword still in hand.
“Come on!” he yells. Glancing back, his heart slides up his throat as the competitor gains on her. “Behind you!”
Coming up beside her, both Dru’s horse and the competitor’s gallop in tandem. The attacker pulls back their arm, glinting blade in their hand?—
Dru leans over and buries her sword deep into their leg. They scream, dropping their weapon. Blood gushes from the wound and drips down the horse’s flank as they fall behind, lost to the horde of other competitors.
Marcus slows to allow Dru to catch up, relief renewing his focus on the course.
The next bend takes them inland, the path looping around one of the smaller peaks of the Scabroso mountains. An array of trees burst out along either side, including the Manna tree, whose thick white sap drips down the bark like stalactites. The canopy doesn’t do much for them with the sun gone, and the breeze from the ocean all but disappears. Sweat drenches his back and bugs fly into his face, the rotten smell of warm, stagnant water forcing his nose to twitch.
The sounds of dozens of hooves echo around them as they skirt another bend, and a high-arching tunnel looms before them. If Marcus remembers correctly, the ancient Durevolians carved it out ofthe rock specifically for this race. The top of the opening comes to a point, formed by the constant water dripping down from the trees above.
Marcus has no idea how long the tunnel will be, and the pervasive darkness inside concerns him. But they can’t stray from the course.
