The Silent Tempest (Book 2) (29 page)

The Prathion leaned over her, his shield
still protecting him. “Stupid bitch,” he said, right before his head exploded.

He hadn’t counted on Abby’s strength.
Still conscious and at close range, she had destroyed his shield and
obliterated his head and neck with a single retributive strike. His headless
corpse collapsed on the ground beside her, arms and legs twitching
reflexively. Abby looked at him once before her eyes closed as she lost
consciousness.

Tyrion was barely aware of Kate screaming
beside him as he watched Koralltis walk onto the field.
Why was the She’Har
so slow?
There was no time. Abby was dying, and rapidly. He started to
run forward, but Thillmarius grabbed his arm.

“No, Tyrion. No one may enter until
Koralltis has called it.”

The master of the arena did call it, long
seconds after, a victory for Illeniel. Then he knelt over the fallen girl
while Tyrion ran from the sidelines. The She’Har was spellweaving, wrapping
Abby’s body in wide swathes of vine-like magic.

“She’s not dead!” cried Tyrion, trying to
get the She’Har’s attention. “You can save her.”

Koralltis looked at him in annoyance,
“This is a stasis-weave. It will preserve her until we can get her to a better
location. She will be returned to you later—unharmed.”

Tyrion stopped short of them, watching the
spellweave enfold Abby. He had never seen a stasis-weave before, but he
supposed it must have been used on him in the past since he had been mortally
wounded more than once. Entranced, he sharpened his magesight, trying to
resolve the individual She’Har symbols that empowered the spellweave.

Years past, while attempting to learn
spellweaving, he had learned that his magesight was considerably better than
most mages, or She’Har; not only was his range greater, but he was able to see
far finer details. Very few She’Har could see the fine detail of their own
spellweaving, which was something that was handled in an unconscious fashion by
the seed-mind they carried within.

Unfortunately, even though he could see
the minuscule hexagonal symbols that they used for spellweaving, he was unable
to replicate them. That was why he had developed his own system, the larger
triangular runes that he used for enchanting. Functionally, his enchantments
were the same as spellweaving, it just took much longer for him to produce
them.

The time factor involved in creating
enchantments was a disadvantage in many ways, but it could also be an
advantage. It simply meant he always had to plan carefully, keeping his
thoughts on the future. The She’Har failure to recognize this was a blind spot
of their own. They always assumed they would have time to produce whatever
spellweave was needed.

If he could understand the principle
behind the stasis-weave, he could undoubtedly produce an enchantment to
replicate its effect.

Ru, Eolhi, Frem, Lyer, Thal,
Sharra…
deep in concentration, he tried to
memorize the pattern. Like most spellweaves, it began to repeat at a certain
point, if he could just reach the end of the pattern and remember the order and
geometric placement before…

Abby’s body was lifted, and the spellweave
began to move, blurring the symbols as he tried to read them.
Dammit!

He knew better than to try to delay
Koralltis, so he turned away, heading back to the sidelines, a look of
disappointment and frustration on his features. Caught up in his thoughts, he
walked back slowly, his eyes on the ground.

Kate was tearful when he got there. She
couldn’t understand Erollith, of course, and the look on his face had been
discouraging. She thought they were taking Abby’s lifeless body from the
field. “She was the kindest, the most compassionate one of them all,” she
said, her voice breaking as she spoke.

“She’s fine,” said Tyrion.

“What? They just carried her away,” said
Kate.

Frustration ate at him as he tried to
remember what he had seen. “Dammit, just be sil…,” he paused. He had lost
it. There was no way to figure it out from the little he could recall. Not
that it mattered, he would be dead before the day was over.

Something more important was happening in
front of him. Kate was upset, and he had been about to order her to silence.
He caught her eyes with his own, seeing the hurt there. She had only just
learned that Abby was still alive, and she still had no idea how good the
She’Har healers were. Softening his features, he reached out, pulling her into
his arms.

“They can heal her, Cat. I’m sorry, I
wasn’t thinking. You don’t have to worry. Abby will be fine,” he squeezed her
tightly.

Kate tensed in his arms. It was the first
time he had held her since… almost ten years before, when they had last
parted. She was still angry with him, she was still worried about Abby, she
didn’t want…
I can’t do this, not again,
she thought, and then she
relaxed despite herself and let herself sink deeper into his embrace.

“It’s time for the next match, Tyrion,”
said Byovar from beside him.

He didn’t want to let go.
This is
probably the last time.
Looking around, he could see Layla standing a few
feet away with a nauseated expression of disapproval on her face.

Kate pushed him away, “Later.” Her eyes
were soft, with a light in them he had thought he would never see again.

I don’t want to die,
came the sudden thought, but he pushed it aside. Duty called. He
went to fetch Ryan from his holding cell.

Ryan’s fight went smoothly, as did Tad and
Sarah’s, and after that came the blooding fights. This was the first week for
Ashley, Ian, Violet, and Anthony. Tyrion had worried that Brigid’s fight might
be called before that, but apparently the She’Har wanted to save the most
dramatic matchup for last.

Of the four first time matches, none were
particularly elegant or well executed, Ashley and Violet won their fights
reluctantly but without incident. Anthony’s was short, his opponent was
already wounded, probably from a fight in the pens before he had been brought
to the arena. It wound up being almost a mercy killing, and the boy was
clearly distraught afterward. Tyrion tried to console him with kind words, but
there was obviously little honor to be had in such a one-sided slaughter.

Ian’s fight was disturbing. He had been
matched up against a young girl, probably no more than fourteen years of age,
if that. It was hard to tell for sure, children in the pens of Ellentrea were
usually malnourished and underweight, so their ages were difficult to judge.

She had curly brown hair, and despite her
small size, she was energetic and clever. A Prathion, she went invisible
shortly after the lights changed and attempted to get closer to her opponent.

Ian, for his part, attempted to cover the
ground in a sensing net that would show him her location, but his powers were
too new, and he had had too little practice at it. His pattern was filled with
large holes and gaps. Somehow, whether by skill or by chance, the Prathion
girl managed to avoid stepping on any of the active areas, thus evading his
detection.

One thing Ian had learned well, though,
was how to shield himself. His embarrassing fight with Ryan had shown him the
importance of that skill. When the girl appeared close beside him and
attempted to pierce his shield with a surprise attack, she failed. His return
stroke shattered her defense and sent her reeling to the ground, nearly
unconscious from the feedback.

Rather than kill her immediately, however,
Ian knelt and then pulled her upright yanking painfully on her hair.

“What is he doing?” asked Kate, but Tyrion
was looking down, his eyes closed and his jaw clenched.

Ian, like the girl he fought, was naked.
He brought his head close, biting her neck as his hands fondled her small
breasts.

“That’s against the rules, right? That
can’t be allowed, can it?” demanded Kate, outraged.

Layla was laughing too hard to answer, so
finally Tyrion spoke up, “It’s stupid, but the She’Har don’t care what happens,
so long as one of them dies.”

Ian had the girl’s back on the ground now,
spreading her legs as he brought his member forward to press against her tender
regions. Seconds later his body convulsed in pain as the slave collar punished
him for attempting to enter the girl.

Layla’s laughter grew louder, “Is the
child addled? Didn’t you tell them, Tyrion? I know you told him.”

Kate stared at her in shock, “This isn’t
funny! He’s trying to rape her.”

The female warden snorted, “If he lives
through this, he’ll never forget which door to use again, the collar is
unforgiving.”

Tyrion’s face was red with fury and
embarrassment. Some of the spectators laughed at the sight of the boy
convulsing as he fell away and to one side. While the pain had stunned Ian, it
seemed to have roused his opponent. The girl rose to one knee, her eyes
finding her assailant.

Her first attack was a fiery lance that
burned a hole through Ian’s right thigh, close to his manhood. She had
missed. He screamed in pain, but adrenaline and fear brought him back to his
senses. Desperately he shielded himself before her next attack could land.

Seeing her advantage had vanished, the
Prathion mage vanished, but Ian knew her location. Sending forth a broad blast
of force, he sent her sprawling, and she reappeared rolling across the dirt a
mere ten feet away. His next attack rendered her unconscious, but she was
still breathing.

“He was lucky,” commented Layla. “She
should have aimed for his chest. She let her anger get the better of her.”

The burn through his leg made it
impossible for him to walk, so Ian half crawled, half pulled himself toward
her. The boy was in a rage from the pain, and rather than use his power to
finish the girl, he began pummeling her, driving his fists into her head and
stomach.

Whether she regained consciousness or not
was hard to tell, for while her body flinched and curled in on itself during
his assault, she never managed anything resembling an organized defense. After
several more blows, her body went limp, but her heart still beat.

Ian continued to pound on her for a minute
or more until he gradually came to realize she wasn’t dying. Switching tactics,
he choked her, throttling her flaccid body until her face turned purple, and
her faltering heart finally stopped.

Watching his son strangle the girl was
eerily reminiscent of his first fight in the arena, and Tyrion found the bile
rising in his throat. He fought the urge to retch as he entered the field,
moving to reclaim Ian after Koralltis had declared him the winner.

He let his anger push the nausea aside.

“One moment Tyrion,” said the She’Har.
“You can have him after I have restored his leg.” After a few minutes the
arena master helped Ian to his feet. “He may have a limp after this, burns are
difficult to heal, even for us.”

“I don’t care,” said Tyrion, pointing to
the sidelines, indicating the direction Ian should walk. “Move.”

The teen began to walk, limping heavily
while Tyrion followed silently behind him.

“What’s the matter? Did I shame you?”
asked Ian with an audible sneer.

Tyrion was fighting the urge to kill the
boy already. “Do you know what the She’Har call us? What their term for
humans is?”

Ian held his tongue.

“They call us ‘baratt’, which means
‘animal’ in their language,” he said, continuing. “Until now I believed that they
were wrong, except in the case of those that they raised to be animals, the
people that came out of the pens. But today you just proved their point,
trying to rut in the dirt like a pig. Is killing not enough for you? Are you
so starved for sex that you would try to rape your opponent? You didn’t even
give her a clean death!”

Ian stopped before entering his cell,
“Isn’t that what you did,
Father
? Isn’t that how I came to be? Should
you be so surprised that I turned out like
you?
”

Tyrion snapped then, punching the
unshielded boy hard in the nose. Blood erupted from Ian’s face as he fell
backward. He started to scramble when he landed, but his father’s hand caught
his hair, pulling hard to jerk his head back. Tyrion’s other hand rose toward
Ian’s throat, encased in its enchanted blade of aythar.

Byovar shouted from behind him, “Tyrion,
no! Not here, wait until later. They are calling for the next one.”

He froze, feeling the boy’s heart pounding
in his chest, thumping in time with his own. “I was about to kill you, boy,”
he whispered. “Don’t forget that.” Releasing Ian, he stepped back, slamming
the door to the cell closed.

Taking a deep breath, he moved down
several doors until he was outside the cell that held Brigid.
This is it.
The
door opened at his touch, and Brigid looked up at him from beneath shadowed
brows, “You look upset, Father.” She stood and extended her hand to him.

“I’ve had better days,” he told her,
staring at her hand. She lifted one brow, smiling at his hesitation until
finally he offered her his arm.

“You aren’t having second thoughts about
our deal are you?” she asked, her voice shifting tone oddly. Her features
radiated calm confidence, but her aura was uncertain.

A dozen things passed through his mind at
her question, but it was Ian’s recent disgrace that remained when everything
else was done.
I’m no better.
“No,” he answered surely. “Nothing has
changed.” An unusual feeling of peace settled over him as he said the words.
Let
it be over.

Brigid’s hand tightened on his arm, “I
don’t want to do this.”

“She doesn’t either, but none of us have
any choice,” he replied. “You understand the reasons, and I think she does as
well.”

“We’ve always been friends…” Brigid was
looking across the arena now, seeing her sister stepping out on the other side.

Tyrion put his hand over hers on his arm,
pulling her along when her steps became reluctant. “This isn’t your fault,
Brigid. It isn’t Haley’s either. The blame falls squarely on my shoulders.
Remember that. Make sure you win. You can avenge her after it’s over.”

“No, please,” Brigid looked up at him, her
eyes pleading. “Can’t you do it? I shouldn’t have to, it shouldn’t be me—it—I
can’t.”

“You’re right,” he agreed, untangling her
arm from his, “but ‘right’ doesn’t matter a damn in this cursed world.
Remember what I told you, focus on your defense. Don’t let her see the blades
until it’s too late, until she’s too close.”

Her face twisted as he walked away, red
eyes and swollen lids spoiling her beautiful features. Brigid’s shoulders
hunched inward as she fought to control her grief. Grief for a sister not yet
dead, grief for a murder not yet done. She kept her eyes on Tyrion’s back,
though. He could feel them there as he withdrew.

“You’re next,” she said softly, and then
the lights changed and the chime sounded.

Haley had been watching them from across
the field. She had been too far to hear their words, but her hungry eyes had
taken in every detail. Seeing her sister and closest friend, Brigid, enter the
field as her opponent had filled her with despair.

For an unknown time the field was silent
as the two girls stared at one another. Haley’s hair was a dark brown, a shade
lighter than Brigid’s raven locks, but in every other respect they almost
appeared to be twins. But where Brigid’s face was marred by grief and anger,
Haley’s was filled with deadly resolve. She began advancing on her sister,
taking careful steps.

She’s too strong,
observed Tyrion, watching from beyond the arena barrier. Both of
his daughters shone with brilliant, powerful aythar, but Brigid was still
recovering from her injury. He could see that Haley held a small but distinct
edge as they were at present.

At fifty yards, the peaceful air was split
with actinic light as Haley struck, sending a bolt of pure lightning racing
toward her sister. It struck with sizzling power, but there was no chance it
would penetrate the shield Brigid had prepared.

That wasn’t its purpose, however. The
light and sound were disorienting, making it difficult for Brigid to react
properly to the following attack, a lance of pure force, focused and deadly.
That was the attack meant to crack her shield.

The speed of Haley’s assault was
breathtaking, and Brigid’s response was just as fast. Acting on a level that
had to be almost pure instinct, she contracted her shield and sidestepped,
letting the shieldbreaker pass without making contact. She sent a return
stroke of her own in the space of the same breath, sweeping low to try and
force Haley to move before she was ready.

The progress of the battle over the next
seconds was almost too rapid to follow as the sisters traded blows at speeds
that were almost inhuman. The crowd of spectators grew hushed as they tried to
follow the course of the combat.
This
was the fight they had hoped to
see. Gabriel had been a disappointment, but Tyrion’s daughters were delivering
the kind of fight they hadn’t seen since Tyrion himself had retired from the
arena.

Naturally, Kate was unable to see much of
what was happening beyond the occasional flash of light and the thunderous
sound of invisible forces battering against one another, but as she glanced to
her side, she could see that Layla’s mouth had fallen slightly agape. The
female warden watched the battle with what could only be described as awe.

Of all those watching, only Tyrion
possessed the acuity of magesight and enough combat experience to truly follow
their movements, and even he was impressed by the sheer ferocity of their
blindingly fast struggle for dominance. And Tyrion was worried.

Don’t fight her at range,
you’re already at a disadvantage. You can’t keep it up as long as she can.

A sound like thunder rolled across the
arena as Brigid’s latest battering blow connected directly with Haley’s
defense. It was a solid hit, and in that moment there was no subtlety or
cunning in Haley’s opposition. Brigid’s best had failed to crack her sister’s
shield. She was the weaker of the two, and she was tiring already.

Haley’s counterstroke was a hammer blow
that might have broken Brigid’s shield and killed her outright, but the raven
haired girl met it with an angled plane that diverted much of Haley’s attack to
one side, where it struck the ground. The vibrations of that shock could be
felt far beyond the arena itself.

A flurry of attacks followed, each as
powerful as the last, each striking from a different direction as Haley
accelerated her attacks against her sister, attempting to pulverize her with
unadulterated power. The earth began to roil at her feet, kicking up in fits
and starts as the wind churned. Haley was whipping the air into a storm, even
as she bombarded Brigid with earth shattering attacks.