Page 73 of Her Manticore Master
37
RONAN
Dark elves are graceful, precise, and silent, unlike my brute force. They move like smoke, a sharp, killing wind, separating into a synchronized dance. The fight begins with feints and probes, testing my defenses.
“Stay behind me,”I growl at Corrina, my own blade a heavy, clumsy thing against their elegant, curved swords.
“They’re flanking us!” she cries out, and she’s right. They are constantly in motion, forcing me to pivot and turn, never allowing me to face one without exposing my back to the other. It’s the most difficult fight of my life. My previous opponents were strong or fast, but these elves are both, and they are intelligent. They see Corrina not as a target, but as a liability, a weakness in my guard they can exploit.
“What do I do?” she asks, her voice tight with a fear that is rapidly becoming my own.
“Distract them! Keep them from getting behind me!” I roar, parrying a lightning-fast thrust that leaves a burning line of pain along my forearm.
In a desperate blur, I'm forced onto the defensive, a caged beast worn down by two elven hunters. One's blade is a whirlwind, the other harries my flanks, until my stamina wanes.
The elf in front disengages, then slams his pommel into my head. The world explodes in pain, ears ringing, vision blurring, I stumble to my knees. The crowd roars, sand close to my face. Through blurred vision, I see the dark elf raise his sword for the killing blow, his face triumphant. My body screams to move, but I'm too slow. This is how I die, a foolish beast caught by a cheap trick.
“Ronan!”
Corrina screams and, against my orders, throws herself at the dark elf's legs in a desperate act of instinct.
Her crude tackle shatters his balance, diverting his killing blow. His sword misses, burying itself in the sand as he curses, his focus broken.
In a crucial second, my clarity returns. The pain sharpens my focus; he's exposed. Roaring, I rise, severing his knees with my sword. He shrieks, collapsing.
The second elf, enraged by his partner's fall, charges wildly. I meet his sloppy attack with controlled efficiency, my blade a blur. He fights for vengeance, I fight for her. It's no contest. I disarm him with a swift twist, and my sword finds his heart.
He fell, the blade in his chest. The arena erupted, but I only saw her. She stood, pale and breathing hard, clutching her dagger. We stared, our opponents forgotten.
“We won,” she whispers, the words a breath of pure, disbelieving joy.
“We won,” I echo, my own voice hoarse.
We rush into each other's arms, holding on tight. She's alive, I'm alive, we're free. The overwhelming relief is almost too much. We cling to each other in the roaring arena, two broken survivors who've escaped hell together.
“A magnificent spectacle!”
Valdris’s cold voice silences the roaring crowd, halting our triumphant relief. We turn to see him at the railing, clapping slowly, his face lit with sadistic glee, admiring his "finest performance."
“Truly,” he continues, his voice dripping with a satisfaction that makes my blood run cold, “a more thrilling conclusion to our melee I could not have scripted myself. The beast and the lioness, triumphing against all odds. A story for the ages.”
“We won,” I call out, my voice a harsh growl. “We are free.”
“Ah, yes,” Valdris says, his smile widening. “Freedom. The ultimate prize.” He lets the word hang in the air for a moment. “But I find myself in a bit of a quandary. My melee was designed to find a single, ultimate champion. And yet, I have two.” He taps a long, pale finger against his chin in a mockery of deep thought. “This simply will not do. The rules must be honored.”
“What are you saying?” Corrina shouts, her voice trembling with a dawning horror.
Valris’s smile becomes a razor’s edge. He looks down at us, his eyes glittering with the pure, unholy joy of a god about to smite a pair of mortals.
“I am saying,” he announces, his voice booming across the silent, breathless arena, “that there has been a slight amendment to the rules. There can be only one champion. Only one of you may leave this arena alive.” He spreads his hands, a gesture of magnanimous cruelty. “Your final match begins now. You will fight each other. To the death.”
38
CORRINA
We won. Ronan and I are free. Then Valdris declares: "Only one of you may leave this arena alive." Hope withers; it was always a trick. Shock gives way to a tidal wave of pure rage.
“You liar!” The scream is torn from my throat, a raw, ragged sound that echoes in the sudden, vast silence of the arena. I wrench my hand from Ronan’s and point a trembling, accusing finger up at the smug, silken figure in the viewing box. “You promised! You said the winners would be free!”
