Chapter 27 Dahvid Tin’vori

Dahvid sat alone in the dark—beneath the arena.

His armor was fitted perfectly to his body. Leather straps cinched tight enough that the armor would not slip in a key moment, but not so tight that he lacked mobility. He had already examined each of the specially designed slits that allowed access to his tattoos.

All that was left now was the killing.

The entire room vibrated. All the noise from above funneled down into that dark space, echoing until it sounded like the rumbling footsteps of a god. He rubbed his hands together and tried to keep his breathing steady. It would not do to work himself up before it all began. Most potential champions weren't defeated by clever swordplay but by the exhaustion of their own limbs. As the fights went on, their footwork got sloppy. Their movements grew haggard. It was already easy enough to die in the arena, even when you were at your very best. Dahvid sat in perfect stillness, wasting nothing, until a lone voice echoed down the hallway, calling his name.

He stood. A quick crack of the neck, and then he was walking. The great doors protested as they were thrown open. Two guards stepped aside. Dahvid came striding out into the lights and the noise and the chaos, sand crunching with every step. He saw Darling first—seated like a king. His attendants were all there, and then a sea of faces fanned out in every direction. More people than Dahvid had ever seen in his life.

He felt some small relief when he spied the woman next to Darling. Agatha Marchment wore a dress. No armor or dueling attire. At least he would not have to face her. Most of the other gladiators looked ready, though. Dahvid knew that Darling was showing off his great arsenal of options. They'd spent so long wondering who he'd fight. The time had finally come to find out.

He turned his attention to the landscape of the arena.

Each gauntlet unfolded on a slightly different course. The makers had likely spent day and night shaping this particular arena with magic. Darling's gladiators would have been permitted to come early, assessing each feature, while he was only allowed to see it minutes before his first fight began. A small advantage for them. There was a central circle of normal sand. Identical to all the other arenas. Encompassing that, however, were added features. A downhill slope that led to a series of tight turns with high walls. A labyrinth of sorts. Those paths fed into a section that was decorated with dangerously sharp spikes. At least twenty of them, protruding from the ground like half-buried dragon teeth.

Finally, on the far left, Dahvid saw the ground was built like a puzzle. Interlocking pieces of stone that—he guessed—would shift if the fight took him in that direction. After memorizing the obstacles and spacing, Dahvid walked to the very heart of the arena. He shouted out the words he'd been instructed to say.

"I set my life down here before you. Come. Take it from me if you can."

The crowd roared and the earth shook and Dahvid felt death in the air, thick as smoke. Darling held up a hand. No one else could quell a storm so quickly. All the voices fell away.

"Five rounds. For each round you survive, you will have exactly five minutes to rest and recover before the next round begins. You are allowed no other respite. You are not allowed an attendant. You are not allowed to accept anything from the crowd or receive any magical boon from anyone besides yourself. To break these rules is to forfeit your life. Understood?"

Dahvid squared his shoulders. "Understood."

"Your request for a gauntlet is accepted. Call the first!"

The arena filled with a rhythmic drumming. The onlookers pounded their hands against their chairs or the stones or their own bodies. A great rolling tide of angry noise. Dahvid fed off that energy, allowing the rage to pool inside his own body. He settled into his stance.

Before the first challenger came, he found Cath in the crowd. Darling had honored her with a seat on the same row. Their eyes met. As he prepared to knock on death's door, he finally felt certain that he loved her. This was true love, and he did not need his father or mother or Ware to tell him it was true. He only wished he'd said something earlier. Now he could only stare the words at her. She nodded once, as if she could hear his thoughts, and that was enough.

The gates opened.

Dahvid let everything slip away. The faces of the crowd did not matter. There was no past. There was no future. Only the now. Dust spewed from the entrance as a man trotted out in steel-thick armor. There were slits for his eyes and mouth, but other than that, he was fully encased in the shimmering metal. The tactic was obvious. Protective armor intended to draw Dahvid into a prolonged fight. Darling had chosen this man for the purpose of dying a very slow death.

"I am the Harbinger!" the man shouted defiantly. "Fear the Harbinger!"

The crowd roared back. Dahvid pitied him. Calling out his own name so that they might know who he was. All so that he might die moments later. The man paused at the opposite edge of the inner circle. They both tensed, waiting for Darling's signal. In that stretching silence, Dahvid reached for the tattoo at his wrist.

His sword. It was likely his most versatile spell, because it was a spell that no one expected to be versatile. A sword was a sword. Unless it wasn't. Dahvid made a slight alteration in the summoning. He used his nail to dig into the skin of his wrist. Enough to draw blood. When his finger lifted, the magic of the spell released. Dahvid sensed the slightest manipulation nestled within the normal casting. Light pooled in the air beside him. Too bright to look at, until his hand found the grip of the sword. The crowd had reached a fever pitch. Ravinia's king stood and gave his signal.

The fight began.

Dahvid snaked forward. No hesitation. The Harbinger settled into a defensive stance. He was not as technically sound as the paladin. Dahvid could tell by his footwork. He was just a man trapped inside a big metal suit. He had a buckler and a pathetic-looking short sword. Dahvid picked up his pace. Their collision became inevitable. His upper body twisted to the right. A full-shoulder turn that exposed his own left flank but allowed him to take a massive, two-handed swing at his opponent. The kind of swing that could fell a tree. The Harbinger raised his shield, heels dug in, bracing for the first ringing impact of metal against metal.

But there was magic in the blade.

Dahvid's sword whispered straight through the metal shield. It did not rebound against the thumb-thick armor of the man's breastplate. It hunted what Dahvid had magically commanded it to hunt: flesh. He felt some resistance as he found exactly that, but his swing had been a brutal one. The blade came out the other side, splattering blood in a terrible arch.

The crowd stared in confusion. There was no mark on the metal. No sign that Dahvid's sword had passed through armor at all. The only sign that the fight was over was the way the Harbinger sank to his knees, then slumped sideways. Blood started pouring out of every opening in his armor. When they took him back below, they'd open him up and see his body cut in two.

Dahvid quickly dismissed the enchanted blade. He needed the full rest time for the tattoo to properly regenerate. There was finally a roar from the audience as they realized he'd won—as they understood death had come far quicker than they'd ever imagined possible. Whispers were running up and down Darling's row. He couldn't hear the words, but he knew what they were saying. What had just happened? How had his blade passed through the metal? Dahvid smiled to himself, then sat back down in the sand, eager to conserve his energy.

The magic was a trick he'd learned as a boy. An alteration—like the moral sword he'd used with Ren Monroe. He could bind the sword to certain laws and logic. If he asked, it would ignore metal and seek flesh and bone. Dahvid knew he couldn't use the trick again. The rest of the challengers would be warned and ready. But once was enough. He'd wasted no energy. Burned none of his tattoos. One down. Four to go.

Waiting was an unexpected annoyance. He had never been good at meditation, but he sat there with his eyes closed and legs folded as the crowd began to chant his name. He knew later that these five minutes would not feel like nearly enough time. Best to savor them while he could.

The crowd was beginning to grow restless when Darling took his feet. The warlord was preparing to signal for the second fighter. Could it really have been five minutes? Dahvid's eyes darted down to the tattoo on his wrist. It hadn't quite fully regenerated. Not yet.

"Call the second!"

Dahvid stood. His eyes kept flicking down to his tattoo. It was nearly restored. Another thirty seconds, and he could summon the sword again. A woman was walking out of the opposite entrance. He recognized her from Nevelyn's notes. They called her the Ravinian. An everyman champion who'd risen through the ranks over the years. Her weapons of choice were a pair of boxing gloves with steel-enforced knuckles and iron spikes along the wrists. Dahvid was trying to remember their notes about her fighting style when Darling's voice echoed over the crowd.

"Begin!"

He glanced down and saw the final lines of color filling in the edges of his tattoo. He needed ten more seconds. The Ravinian was too smart for that. She saw that he hadn't called the sword. Her eyes narrowed and in the space of a breath she was on him. He narrowly dodged a gut punch. The spikes on her gloves scraped against his stomach armor. A second punch nearly caught his jaw. He'd never backpedaled faster in his life.

She punished his retreat. Two more strikes—testing jabs—and then she unexpectedly went for his legs. A savage kick that nearly buckled his right knee. He dropped down, blocked a second kick with his hands, but that defense blinded him just long enough for the Ravinian to snake behind him. He found himself in her embrace. A tightening forearm that ran from his right shoulder to his left armpit. She squeezed so hard that the arm was trapped there, flopping helplessly.

Dahvid felt like every attempt to free himself made things worse. She snaked a leg through his, tightening, until he had no choice but to drop to the sand. The pressure was too painful. They rolled twice, but nothing could shake her grip. Too late, he remembered Nevelyn's notes about her.

Dangerous in close combat. Keep her at a distance. Incredibly strong upper body. Former wrestler.

Nevelyn's idea of what was dangerous had been far easier to shrug off when it wasn't choking him to death. The pressure under his chin was so intense that he couldn't even get loose enough to bite the exposed flesh of her forearm. He attempted another roll. Nothing. His chest was starting to protest from the lack of oxygen. Even the crowd noises had faded. The drumming in his ears was too loud. He tried everything. Driving his right elbow into her hip. Squirming. But she'd managed to pin his arms so that the only tattoo he could easily reach was the null spell.

Don't panic. There is an answer to every question. A counter to every strike.

His father's voice echoed in his mind. It had been so long since he'd heard it that clearly. Dahvid took an internal breath, and then he started to laugh. He knew what to do. He rolled again, but this time he timed the roll with a second movement. An inward hunch that allowed him to swipe his right hand across his left bicep. The winged birds were there. His utterly useless flying spell. The spell activated at his touch. Great wings burst out from his shoulders.

The Ravinian didn't panic. She kept her hold on him. Dahvid knew if she let go, he'd begin floating up into the air. He fought for position, knowing he'd only have one chance. A quick outward flex of his legs broke her hold on his lower body. It was a brief, scrambling moment that lasted just long enough for him to drive both feet deep into the sand. With that leverage, Dahvid kicked off as hard as he possibly could.

His tattoo's magic answered.

The two of them took flight together. It was a wild backward burst of movement. The Ravinian wasn't expecting it. Instinct forced her to tighten her grip, but they were both helpless as they vaulted through the air with uncontrollable velocity, blind to what was behind them.

A jarring collision shook him free. They'd hit something. Hard. Dahvid felt it knife through the armor of his lower back, just missing his spine. He let out a clipped shout as the arms holding him went limp. He fell to the sand. Half of the crowd roared with delight. The other half were booing. Their long-beloved champion—the Ravinian—was speared through the stomach on one of the waiting spikes.

Dahvid reached back to his own wound. His fingers came away bloody, but he could tell it wasn't deep. With a mental push, he cut off the magic of his flying spell. The crowd roared for him to finish her, but looking up, he knew she was already dead. He crossed the distance to stand in her shadow, lowering his voice to a whisper.

"I am sorry. You fought well."

Attendants hurried out moments later. Dahvid walked back to the same spot in the sand, chest heaving slightly, and sat again. This time he did not wish away the seconds. He held the hourglass to his lips and drank each one eagerly. Time had never tasted so precious.

"Send out the third!"

Darling was smiling down. Dahvid took up his stance as the gates opened. A man Dahvid had never seen before came striding out. He was shirtless. While Dahvid didn't recognize the stranger's face, it was impossible not to recognize the art decorating his body. There were tattoos everywhere. Darling had somehow found another image-bearer. But the true shock came as the stranger reached the edge of the center circle. Close enough that Dahvid could finally see the details. They were not just tattoos.

His eyes flickered over to where Cath was sitting. She looked like a ghost. One hand was raised to cover a gasp. They both knew why. All of the art was hers.

Every single tattoo on the stranger's body bore a resemblance to her style. Dahvid remembered her mentioning another relationship. Someone before him who didn't matter to her now. She'd never bothered to tell him that the man was an image-bearer, though. Clearly, it was a secret that only Darling had been able to unearth. Designed to unnerve him. And it was working.

Dahvid couldn't seem to settle his heart rate. His breathing was coming too fast. He felt like he'd been sprinting through Ravinia's hilled streets all morning. He fell back into his stance, but he could not help eyeing each tattoo and wondering about the story behind each one. How long they'd been together. Whether she'd loved this man the way she'd claimed to love him.

Darling signaled.

The fight began.