Page 84 of Trial of Bronze and Blood
“She is,” Marcus says aloud.Might as well admit that, at least. She’s the most impressive person he’s ever met, which is saying a lot, given where they were both raised.
“She knows how to get a crowd going too,” Cato concedes. Nearly all the Durevolians around them are on their feet, whipping blue strips of cloth in the air and banging on their drums. They think she’s one of their own, and maybe that’s what they need. Perhaps it’ll give them hope.
With some mismatched pairings and more than a few mixed outcomes, a dozen more fights come to an end before one of Marcus’s own guards comes to get him for his turn inside the arena. He follows them down, surprised Dru didn’t come back up to watch the spectacle with them. Or, at least to gloat for besting her opponent so swiftly.
But he can’t let it distract him.
Standing at the Durevolian entrance to the arena with theremaining participants, he steels himself after the awful night he had. He can’t remember the last time he’s felt this tired, but there’s not much he can do about it. He’d do it again a thousand times for Dru, knowing it saved her. He’ll simply have to be more strategic in how he uses his energy.
He has no doubt the gamemasters have paired him up with one of the more formidable Phaedran warriors. Having him fight one of the weaker opponents would serve no purpose. The Imperium will want to prove to the entire crowd that, if Marcus Scaevola can’t protect himself in the first trial, then he can’t protect the king from these trials either.
The moment the drum beats twice, he steps out into the arena.
The sun strikes at his vision and instantly slickens his brow with sweat. He didn’t realize how protected he was inside the balcony. Although it’s unpleasant, he can handle it. One of the Faithless’ tests dropped him in the middle of the Cecidimus desert for a week with no supplies.This is nothing.
Focusing on his breathing, he shuts out the thronging arena and sizes up the Phaedran man across from him.
Marcus was right: they picked the largest, strongest warrior to oppose him. With skin white as snow, he clearly hails from the northern territories. He beats at his scarred, naked chest and yells in what Marcus imagines is meant to be a terrifying manner. Smothering a grin, Marcus flexes his fingers.This might be too easy.Men like him rely on brute force, but they’re slow.
Marcus will simply have to be quicker.
When the drum sounds, the Phaedran man sprints toward him as quickly as his size allows, lumbering across the arena with fury in his eyes. Marcus easily dodges the first wild swing thrown at his head, sidestepping him altogether. The man turns swiftly, rage popping out the blue veins in his neck and forehead.
Marcus sneaks a punch in before he can make his next move, hitting him directly in the vulnerable space beneath his chest.
The beastly man stumbles back but, unfortunately, doesn’t godown. Instead, he roars as he lunges for Marcus again, and this time, he can’t get out of the way before the hit lands.
His large fist connects with enough of Marcus’s ribs that it spins him around, forcing him to his hands and knees. Marcus quickly scrambles back to his feet, with barely enough time to dodge another swing.
Ribs throbbing, Marcus finds an opening and lands a blow to his jaw. But the other man remains upright, clipping Marcus in the shoulder as he tries to avoid him.
Grasping his shoulder, he reminds himself of his strategy.All I have to do is tire him out.
The Phaedran warrior isn’t making it easy. Although his swings are wild, they have enough accuracy to keep Marcus from catching his breath. Eventually, he takes a glance to the cheek that draws blood. He shakes his head to dispel the bright bursts in his vision from it.This isn’t working.
Deciding on a different tactic, Marcus shuffles side to side in circles across the ground, kicking up dirt into the air. The fool follows him.
Once the Phaedran’s legs start to wobble and his eyes cross, Marcus lunges forward, finding his opening with an uppercut beneath the jaw.
Any other opponent would’ve found themselves flying backward, but he merely stumbles back and collapses to the ground, unmoving.
The crowd erupts at his victory and Marcus can’t help pumping his fist in the air. Chest heaving, sweat pours off his body, but he feelsalive. The Durevolians’ cheers breathe new confidence into him, even as exhaustion threatens to catch up with him again.
At the drum beats, he exits the arena.
He heads for the stairs to where Cato waits in the balcony, to share in his triumph—when he sees Dru leaning against one of the columns, staring at her hands.
Has she been down here all this time?Worry overshadows his victory as he hurries over to her.
“Dru?” But she doesn’t notice his presence. “What’s wrong?”
He touches her arm and she looks up at him, her eyes out of focus.
“Marcus,” she finally responds, blinking. “I don’t know.”
Concern sweeps through him. “Do they hurt? Your arms?”
He brushes his fingers along her right forearm, and Dru sucks in a breath. The Spettrale tattoo glares at him from its place on her arm; he won’t admit he noticed it earlier, not until he finds out what it might mean.
