Engines and werewolves

Chapter 67

There’s a moment of blinding heat and exquisite pain. I’m not certain if I scream.

Blessed’s rotting balls, that hurts.

Between blinks, I’m on the deck, curled up on my side, wild discharges of green Melos power arcing and sputtering all around me. Ahdron is standing over me, his hand still glowing, gouts of smoke rising from it. The air smells like scorched metal.

“I told you I’d fought your kind before,” Ahdron says. “You didn’t believe me. I knew you wouldn’t. Too cocky by half, all of you Melos types.” He closes his fist in a puff of smoke. “Your armor may stop a bolt of fire, but up close, I can make things a lot hotter.”

No rotting kidding. But I’m not as badly wounded as he seems to think. My armor did stop the blow, even if the powerburn hurt like the Blessed’s own cattle brand. Ahdron hasn’t fought a Melos adept as strong as I am. I lie still a moment longer, blades sputtering and arcing to the deck. He takes a step closer.

“I’m not going to ask you to surrender,” he says, too quietly for anyone but us to hear. “But lie still and I can make this quick.”

Unfortunately, he’s not stupid. Before he bends down to jam that white-hot fist into my face, he puts his boot on my arm, and he keeps his shield in front of him. That reduces my options, but he’s still clearly not expecting me to be able to move. I swing my free arm low, under the rim of his shield, and the blade chops into the meat of his leg with a crackle and a smell of burning flesh. He shouts and stumbles back, and the injured leg gives way underneath him, sending him to one knee. I roll away, gaining distance.

Pulling myself to my feet brings a fresh wave of pain from my side, and I blink away tears. He gets up at the same time, teeth gritted, clearly hurt but still able to stand. I raise my blades, staring at him through a field of crackling green.

“Surrender?” I force a smile.

“Rotting … b***h,” he hisses, through clenched teeth.

I take this as a no. He raises his free hand and unleashes a gout of flame, Myrkai power washing over me. My armor flares, but it’s mild compared to the concentrated heat he can deliver up close, a distraction rather than an attack. I charge, swinging left to get out of the blast, and he turns to meet me shield first. I lash out with one blade, then the other, Melos power leaving blackened streaks on the metal and notches in the rim. When he tries to counter, open hand darting forward full of white-hot flame, I step back and s***h down, and he has to retreat to avoid losing his fingers.

For long seconds, we dance like this, my blades hacking at his interposed shield, him trying to get a hand on me without getting it chopped off. His power may be vicious, but it means he lacks reach, and we’re briefly at a stalemate. I become aware, for the first time, of the sound of the crowd, a vast, ocean-like roar of cheers, screams, and curses. As we circle, the officers come into view, the Butcher watching with a sneer, Zarun regarding us calmly over folded hands.

Ahdron backpedals, pelting me with small bursts of fire, hoping to wear me down. I bull through them, trusting my armor. Between the washes of fire and smoke, I watch him. I watch his feet, the way he drags his leg, and when the time is right I lunge.

He takes one strike on his battered shield, but I aim the other low, and he has to give ground. But he’s off balance, and when he puts his weight on his bad leg it folds. He goes down hard, shield ringing against the metal of the deck, and he’s wide open.

Step forward, reach down, thrust, and twist. The easiest thing in the world. I’ve already begun the motion when something catches my eye, movement in the stands, a familiar face forcing her way to the edge of the ring. Meroe.

Berun is beside her, but in that instant all I can see are Meroe’s eyes, wide as a cat’s at night. I hear her voice in my head.

“You’ve done that before, haven’t you?”

“What?”

“Killed people.”

I see Shiro’s face. The girl who’d been unlucky enough to be in Firello’s when I came calling, begging through her tears. Hagan’s last look at me, his trust.

I see myself through Meroe’s eyes. Monster.

I don’t pause for long, but it’s long enough. Ahdron fights through and lets loose with another blast of flame, blinding heat raging all around me. I have to back away, gasping for breath, the pain from my armor rising to bone-deep agony. I can’t keep this up much longer.

“Surrender,” I manage. Now I’m the one gritting my teeth.

Ahdron, somehow, is getting back to his feet. Blood drenches his calf, and he’s limping, but he’s still up. He can see me weakening.

“Go rot,” he says.

The crowd is screaming, and my armor crackles and sparks. Through it all, I hear her calling my name.

“Isoka!” Meroe’s voice is hoarse. “Isoka!”

I lock eyes with Ahdron.

So I’m a rotting monster. It’s not like I didn’t know that already.

I come at him again, as his hand blazes white fire. A descending s***h with my right-hand blade and he raises his shield to meet it. I bring the other blade around, and he twists to intercept that, too—

—and I let the blade vanish. I grab the jagged rim of his shield, green lightning shimmering and crawling as my armor touches the metal. I pull, hard, and he takes a stumbling half step forward, hopping on his good leg. Too close. I shift left, inside his guard, and as he tries to lean back and get his shield between us I bring the other blade up, an underhand blow that punches the spike of Melos power into his ribs. Then I spin away, fast and smooth, because he’s still flailing with his white-hot palm.