Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Kos was a city bristling with anticipation.

Even the golden tendrils of íkan that peeked through the walls fluttered with excitement, sending blooms and wild overgrowth all over the avenues and streets and flowing into homes through open windows.

All because match season had arrived in the obsidian metropolis.

Within a week of her assessment success, Kaniz declared Sana’a ready for a real fixture, and she was rostered on to fight her first public match.

These took place once every seven days.

Before each match day, the kəthi masters conferred in secret and then released the tournament lists, which were distributed in holos and signs around Kos.

The announcement of the combats and the kavaliers in play caused great excitement in the glass-like burg.

Bookmakers went to town to lock in bids from the populace.

The fights’ infamy attracted the attention of old and young, warriors and civilians, rich and poor.

Most souls in this metropolis of contradictions, where opulence and poverty lived side by side, wanted in on making bank.

By the first night of the Kəthi battle season, the arena was sold out and packed with roaring crowds.

In the betting pens, schills changed hands fast as patrons wagered with crazed zeal.

Mini brawls broke out between punters and lenders.

The latter were mostly Kírkos, the merchant bourgeoisie whose silver and gold quills quivered in anticipation of a windfall.

The air was redolent with the distinct reek of sweat, beer and the hunger for a win.

Within the imposing building’s match locker room walls, in the shadows of a virtually unlit room, Sana’a spotted her first Kəthi opponent.

He was unusual. ‘‘He wears the hooded robes of a monk?’ she asked.

In hushed tones, Kaniz, who stood alongside the Shotelai woman, gave Sana’a his jacket. ‘His name is Kysin. He was once a Sābər Hawk famous for his skill with a koya and trusted by Kíríga himself. But he lost his command after he’d been found to have stolen schills from his squad. He also used his power to harass women and had an innocent young hawk warrior-in-training die in his care. He forfeited everything and converted into a friar. He now lives an ascetic life of curse-mongering while earning money via koya fighting.’

‘Sounds like a lovely fellow.’

‘Despite his monk’s robes, he’s the most sublime of demonic dickcissels,’ Kaniz grinned before sobering. ‘He fights dirty for a holy man and has no hesitation in cutting you down with his blade. He likes to get a good strike into somebody’s head and down you under a flurry of blows. The second you’re off balance, Kysin is going to follow up. He’s going to be on top of you – and he’s going to keep hitting. One of his weaknesses is that he is rigidly anti-lefty. Use that to your advantage. And remember, no-kill; you’re just after his koya. The more you collect, the quicker you’ll rise in the kəthi ranks.’

Sana’a nodded her understanding.

Kysin glanced at them across the vast waiting area.

He jogged into the arena to a clamouring reception, his monk’s cloak flowing around him.

He shed it to reveal his muscled body, unfurling his pale, dramatic plumage. The upper sides of his wing quills were bleached, with little or no colour visible interspersed among the very dark feathers.

The venue erupted into wild cheering when he swung around to show them off. He was a popular figure.

Sana’a strode into the packed coliseum moments later to a more hushed welcome.

Her appearance elicited baffled glances, curious whispers and a few boos.

News of her defeat of Keb had filtered beyond the íkhara.

Sana’a sensed several spectators were present to gauge the accuracy of the rumours of her prowess.

She ignored them all, keeping her eyes on Kysin, who paced the edge of the ring—flexing his muscles and tossing his two sābər koya blades into the air in a blistering set of twirls that had the crowd gasping.

She had no such showmanship ideas in mind and stood still, waiting until Kəstian announced the fight.

The crowd’s roars were like thunder that sounded in waves over the crammed tiers that rose steeply, disappearing into the gloom above.

Hovering at a vantage point and elevated over the amphitheatre was a mezzanine platform.

This was where the most distinguished observers observed the bouts for free from the comfort of the shade of awnings.

Sana’a made out the nobles’ carved seats and spacious booths alongside the sunshade of the royal box.

Each booth had figures clustered around tables trembling under platters of food and drink.

A myriad of servers attended the stands.

All at the whim of the noble Kəˈnerēs, who were a showy class.

They cloaked themselves in the wizardry of haute couture.

Most were clad in pieces of mind-boggling artistry. From feather and leather bauble skirts to lace-effect jackets and oyster shell paillettes, metallic hirsute jumpsuits and overcoats, the nobles feasted on spectacle—the most chic fashion can get.

Sana’a even spotted a series of giant faux-eagle heads encrusted with jewels.

They bobbed amongst krests, glistening with baubles as the most elite of Katánē society slithered and slunk between booths. Networking amongst each other, jostling for attention and clout.

She searched the rises until her eyes fell on a sharp-faced, birdlike woman.

Her eyes widened as she recognised the cold, dark, small eyes and the slash of a lip set within a pale face. Above her bare skull was an impressive krest of plumes erupting from a neck of frilly ruffs.

She sat with a group of female and male Kəˈnerēs, each of their krests shivering with inset diamonds, their fingers encrusted with jewels.

Sana’a huffed in surprise as she noticed a second face.

Kamilla, the koel songbird from her night walk.

She sat separately from the main table, in a smaller section, alongside a weak-chinned man Sana’a concluded was her relative, given their energy.

While Kamilla was a beauty, the man beside her was not, and Sana’a studied his puffed face, bloated cheeks and baggy eyes; he slammed back a few drinks in succession, his expression screwed up with bitterness.

A loud cry sounded high up in the sky.

Sana’a glanced up, as did everyone in the coliseum.

Whatever was out there was scarcely visible to the naked eye.

Her keen eyesight extended past the firmament’s ultraviolet band, which she used to make out a dark shadow against the hot white sky.

A wedge-tailed eagle was soaring without wingbeat, circling on the thermal currents rising from the substratum below.

It swooped, hurtling toward the arena, almost slamming into the surface.

With agile ease, it righted itself and rushed at the rises, brushing them with the tips of its giant pinions, causing panic amongst the spectators.

Some responded with aggressive swipes of their wings, engaging in noisy calling, presumably meant to disorient the swooping predator.

In response, it rolled in the air, displaying its lethal, sharp talons before floating to the ground as the onlookers whooped at the theatrics.

On touching the surface, the immense eagle transmuted.

Its tremendous wingspan melding away to reveal an older, attractive, muscled ex-warrior.

He sported silver and black hair and a flowing beard of the same hue.

‘My name is Kəstian, the Kəthi Guild Master and host of tonight’s events,’ his voice boomed. ‘I welcome you to the Sābər Arena. Today’s match features two fighters who’ve never bouted previously. Kysin, a former Imperial Hawk,’ he called out, pointing to the brooding friar, whose blades were now gripped in his hands.

The monk stepped forward as Sana’a kept her eyes fixed on him. ‘I fight for honour,’ he growled to the thunderous reception of the masses.

‘Kysin fights Sana’a, the Shotelai.’

Kəstian gestured at her to speak, to state her mission.

‘I clash for schills.’

Her plain pronouncement had the stadium aflutter.

Some roared out in laughter at her audacity, and others twisted their mouths and beaks in consternation.

Speaking out loud about the nefarious, high-stakes nature of the match arena was improper.

Kaniz, standing on the sidelines, gave Sana’a a half-exasperated smile. She shrugged.

Kəstian nodded at the pair. ‘Ready?’

As soon as both fighters bowed in acknowledgement, he stepped back, raising his hands.

It was their sign to leap into the sky

Both combatants took into a hover ten feet above the ground.

Kəstian swooped between them, transmuting into rachís-only form and using his powerful plumes to soar into the sky. ‘May the wings of Kagṣān carry you to a win.’

The duo faced each other as a controlled explosion of illumination flared.

It came from within the bronze sculpted eagle cantilevered over the arena, the burst of light flashing from its eyes.

The match was on.

Kysin’s koya jabbed, but Sana’a jerked aside and pulled back at the monk, her shotel glinting. The Katánian spun away untouched while swirls of gold íkan danced around his blade as it darted forward.

Sana’a slashed at it, Kysin jerked it back, then thrust again. Serrated brass screamed on the curve of the synth steel shotel as the sābər slid off the shikari’s chest.

She hissed and grunted as it sliced deep, leaving a long, bright scratch on the ribbed metsai beneath.

She charged, flicking her shotel at the Katánian’s head. Kysin avoided its arced whistling flight, and it snapped back into her grip.

The Monk landed a quick jab on Sana’a’s heart, to no effect. Sana’a cut at him, her curved weapon glancing on his sābər.

She jabbed like a fast-striking peregrine—so swift that her blade blurred. She bluffed in all directions, prodding at the Kysin’s wings, talons, and broadside.

Kysin was resilient, but his blows eluded his mark as she learned how to evade his left-leaning sābər-slinging.

She wielded her shotel with an extra bit of reach, striking to the right with one hand.

Moving like a rapid wind, she switched to her left. This had Kysin reeling as she introduced her hidden Shotelai tricks, new, strange angles, from left-to-right cuts that swapped lightning fast to right-to-left.

Sana’a kept circling, jabbing, then darting again, forcing the bigger man to turn and wheel and lose sight of her.

She used his confusion well, using the curve of her weapon to snatch at him in quick bursts.

Back and forth, the pair soared over the arena in spirals, Sana’a slashing while Kysin’s sābər struck at arm and leg twice at her temple.

Sana’a’s metsai suit took its share of hits as well.

The monk grunted from time to time, and once, the Shotelai woman caught him muttering a curse, but otherwise, he fought in sullen silence.

She sensed he was increasingly enraged by the lack of an easy win.

By now, the crowd had realised this was a well-suited match and that Kysin, the Ferocious Monk, was being bested by a xkénos.

They roared to their feet, and some tried to surge the synth mesh fence onto the arena.

The transmuted Känˌdôrs on duty reached their giant wings across the barriers to keep the hordes back.

In the high-paying booths, nervous glances were exchanged. Bets were analysed, and the loan sharks changed their tunes for who they favoured to win.

Unaware of it all, Sana’a sent her shotel at the monk’s face, so fast the huge hawked man flinched back.

She followed, flitting with such speed she was a blur.

Kysin’s retreat became a headlong backward flight mere inches ahead of the curved sword. It slashed at his chest, arms, and head.

‘Fokk, Shotelai, give it up! I always prevail.’

His frustration laced his growl, and she smiled in response, only lunging in some more, wheeling through the air.

She was enjoying herself.

He hacked at the shaft whenever Sana’a lunged at him. The monk attempted to lop off her shotel from her hand, but he might as well have been trying to strike the wings off a fly.

It was when she pushed back from a charge that she changed tack and dove in. He’d been saving energy to plunge at her with such speed that she couldn’t evade him.

His sābər blade whistled through the air before him.

Before the shikari had a chance to react, it slammed into her shoulder and punched through the metsai emerging on the other side.

Pain radiated through her, and she clenched her teeth in agony as Kysin crashed into her, all ten feet of transmuted hawk mass.

She fell to the ground with a thud as the crowd shrieked.

The noble wing was behind them.

Spectators screamed and shoved at each other to get a view as Kysin dropped on Sana’a.

The monk kav began laying on blow after blow all over her body with his talons, menace and rage all over his face.

His claws reached for their neck, and for a second, she wondered whether he intended to tear off her head.

With a cry, Sana’a knifed up with all her savage strength.

The Monk threw himself sideways, rolling, and in that moment, Kagṣān’s massive sculpted eyes flashed.

With a gasp, she felt an almighty surge of power arc through her.

Sana’a moved first to put the giant carved bird at her back.

She leapt into the air, twisted with speed, and nabbed the Katánian around the neck.

Pulling him up midair with a force she didn’t even know she had.

The Monk roared, hacking his razor-sharp claws up at her, but he was disadvantaged. Arched higher than he was, she clasped his head tight and clamped down on his throbbing jugular, her thighs squeezing the kemí out of his chest.

He gasped for oxygen, slashing and bucking, but it was no use.

Moments later, he slumped as Sana’a’s hand tightened and twisted.

She yanked the Katánian’s two remaining sābər koya from his krest.

Lifting her hands away, she let gravity have its due course as he slipped away into unconsciousness and fell with a heavy thud to the sand below.

Sana’a floated to the ground, her bust heaving as she stared at the downed fighter.

Barely acknowledging it when Kəstian picked her slack hand and raised it, declaring her victory.

She took the expected bow, her body still thrumming with her win, hands clutching the dripping koya.

As Kysin was carried away in a stretcher, his limbs flailing back to consciousness, her muscles locked.

Her skin crawled as she sensed the burn of heated eyes on her.

Not from the crowd cheering from the stands.

This was from somewhere else, a different plane altogether, piercing and familiar at the same time.

She glanced up and around the arena. It was a scene of chaos, and unable to pinpoint the trajectory of the gaze, she cursed under her breath.

Yet somehow, she had a clue as to whose it was.

She turned away and was engulfed in seconds by Kaniz.

‘Fokk, Shotelai, you did it!’

The rest of the kísími crew fell on Sana’a, handing out handshakes and claps on her back.

She took it all in with a slight smile, not used to the effusive reaction.

Sana’a let her new friends lead her back to the íkhara.

But in the back of her mind, he freakin’ lingered.

She dared not search for him in the crowd, not wanting to let him sense that she was luring him.

Into her trap, her fight master snare.

But this was her chance to intrigue him, rattle him, and make him believe she was the only one who could train him.

She was playing with fire, though.

Because Killen Sable was the kind of man with the untapped potency to flame her to ashes.

He also possessed an uncanny aptitude to read her, but she wondered if he’d the ability to discern her blades.

So she sent them a command.

With a slight flutter, one detached from her back, invisible like ether.

As she stepped into the tunnels leading to the change rooms, she dispatched it to seek him in the crowd behind her.

She slipped away from her crew and tracked fast to a dark, private corner, hidden from all eyes.

She grasped the second dagger and summoned it into its solid shape.

Its mirror-like surface gleamed, shimmered, and then revealed the view from the blade outside.

It scanned the crowds, moving like the breath of wind from face to face until it came to a shrouded hulk of male form hurrying from the arena.

As soon as the dagger converged on his presence, Killen came to an abrupt stop.

He wheeled about, staring straight into the flat edge, directly into Sana’a’s eyes in a steady, cold challenge.

She tamped down a gasp and glared back, narrowing her eyes.

In the blink of an eye, he reached out, nabbed the blade and twirled it.

The vision before her pivoted in all directions as he tossed it back into the air.

When the view adjusted, it showed him a few feet away. With his face still in shadow, he lifted a hand, saluted and turned away, disappearing into the distance.

Heart pounding, the shikari commanded her weapon to return.

When it whispered into her palms, she sheathed both daggers away from view, hands shaking, sweaty.

She had her answer.

He was a shikashu.

At that moment, Sana’a realised that although Killen had off-the-charts hawkstone power, it only made him a much more desirable yet unattainable beast of prey. The predator of her dreams.

Dismissing him from her mind, she strode after her kəthi master into the changing rooms.

Even though all the while, her spine shivered, snaking with sensation as the scorched gaze never left her.