Alex Lidell - The Cadet of Tildor

“Easy. Sleep now,” he whispered again, gently tightening the hold. Boulder stopped fighting. Another few seconds passed, and the large head darkened from the diminished blood flow. Continuing to whisper, Savoy walked the dizzying man toward the cage wall and braced against it. Shutting away the crowd’s roar, he focused on his task: balancing the risk of Boulder awaking too early and not awaking at all.

“Korish!” An unfamiliar voice just beyond the bars demanded his attention. “Korish!”

He glanced up to see a small, mouse-like man scurry forward. Before the guards could reach him, the man thrust a wrapped package between the bars. He stared Savoy in the eye. “A present from your uncle, Korish.” The man hissed and ran off.

“What uncle?”

Savoy received no answer. Because just then, all Seven Hells broke loose.

“Fire!”

The scream tore Renee’s attention from the ring.

Fire.

A rain of blazing, oil-filled jars fell over the arena. A new shot of flames burst everywhere the jars shattered. Spilling oil fed the blaze. The fire lapped up the liquid fuel, then jumped to the wooden benches. The scent of tar and burning wood filled Renee’s nostrils. More screams. And then another odor; the sickening smell of charcoaled meat. Panicked voices rose around her. Bodies stampeded up toward the exit, pressing, crushing, shoving.

Jasper shot from his seat to the side door exit. A fireball landed at his feet and he shied back to Renee’s side.

“Commander!” Renee called.

Savoy turned. Sweat ran from his shoulders. He stood two spans away from her, no distance at all except for the bars. The large man he’d been fighting stirred awake but stayed huddled on the ground, huge hands clamped over his ears. Savoy’s chest heaved but his voice was steady. “Your work?”

She smiled. “Not quite.” Renee turned to point out the Seventh’s men and her smile melted. They were cut off by burning columns that split the chamber in two. Until the fire was tamed, the Seventh could do nothing for either Savoy or the spectators. People darted like panicked rabbits around her. She had made a vow to King Lysian when she agreed to return to the Academy. These people were her responsibility. Turning back she met Savoy’s eyes. If he could care for himself a while longer, he’d have to.

He nodded. “I’m all right. Go.” He started to turn away when his eyes narrowed. His hand shot out between the bars to grab the front of Jasper’s tunic. A jerk of the wrist and the boy’s face slammed against the metal. “Keep away from her, mage,” said Savoy. “Understand me?”

The rage in Savoy’s eyes told Renee the extent of Jasper’s deeds. Nausea climbed her throat.

Blood ran from the boy’s nose down to his shirt. He extended a glowing hand toward his captor but the pitiful wisps of blue flame died. “I understand,” he whispered. His pleading gaze sought Renee.

She grasped Jasper’s shirt and yanked him away from the bars. He fell to the floor and stayed there, sniveling. There was no time to address him now. Hundreds of terrified spectators darted in all directions. Fire jumped between wooden benches, ceiling beams, columns. People cursed, shoved, and struck each other. They tripped over their victims as often as they gained headway. One man’s shirt caught flame and he flailed his arms, screaming at the gods until someone found the sense to throw a jacket over him. Traffic and debris plugged both exits.

Renee filled her lungs and climbed onto a bench. “Freeze where you are!” she shouted, pitching her voice over the crowd and the crackle of rising flames.

Heads turned. The momentary attention of the mob rested on her. It was drunk on fear. Crazed with it. Above all, Renee tasted the people’s indecision; should they pummel her to the ground or tear off her limbs? A burning splinter fell on the bench next to her. “I will cut the throat of the next man who runs.” Renee stomped the flame out with her boot. “The doors are still blocked. We need to clear the area of wood and other fuel or the fire will consume us all. The rows below us are empty. You”—she pointed to a large man with a scar in place of one eye—“pick up that bench and—”

“I ain’t no lumberjack!” He pushed forward. A vein pulsed in his bald temple, his skin flushed from the heat. “Who are you to cry decrees, wench?”

Shouts chorused agreement.

The advancing man raised his fist.

Renee struggled to keep her shoulders relaxed despite her racing heart. Smoke was filling her lungs. She knew this would happen. She expected it. She knew what to do. Didn’t she? Her hand dropped down. The small blade in her sleeve slid discreetly into her palm. The hair on her arms shriveled, singed away by the increasing heat. Renee made herself breathe.

The man lurched into arm’s reach. Seen up close, his scar was jagged and messy.

Now! Before the man could strike, Renee spun him around and pressed her knife to his neck. The metal blade flickered, reflecting the growing flames. The crowd fell silent. Her hand tightened on the knife’s hilt. What next? The mob had to respect her over the fire. They had to. And she had to make them.

The man choked out a laugh. “You bluff, chit.”

Renee’s jaw tightened.

“She ain’t bluffin’, Gus,” said Nino, emerging from the crowd. “M’lady, she don’t bluff.”

Beneath her knife, the man, Gus, stopped laughing. Seizing the moment, Renee snugged her hold. Gus’s voice changed to a high-pitched whimper. Renee pinned Nino with her eyes. “Will your friend here do as he’s told?”

Nino and Gus nodded together, the latter nipping himself on the blade and gasping. Renee withdrew the knife and shoved the man to the ground. “Let us get these benches moved, then. You four,” she yelled, pointing to men and tasks.

While Nino enforced her orders, Renee folded her arms across her chest, wondering how anyone in the room could miss the deafening pounding of her heart.

Shouts rose around Savoy and spread like the flames themselves. Jars of burning oil continued to fly. Flames burst wherever jars shattered. The fight’s spectators were now the fire’s prey; some frightened, some injured, some dead. The cage exits blazed hot, forcing the fighters to the center.

Stepping away from the bars, Savoy unwrapped the bundled gift from his mysterious benefactor. It was wet—a soggy face mask coiled around a knife and a clipper tool sturdy enough to cut the crown of barbed wire. The man who delivered the present was long gone. Savoy tied the mask around his face and showed the tools to Den. “From an uncle,” Savoy said wryly.

Den’s brows rose. “It seems the day favors you.”

“Hm.” Savoy focused beyond the bars. Renee herded a frightened mob toward the Seventh, who were there despite his own and Verin’s orders. Bloody impressive. And suicidal.

He shook himself and touched the bars. Hot but not scalding. Not yet anyway. “Rip your pants for face masks and wet them in the drinking pail.” His voice soared above the chaos, but would take time to penetrate everyone’s confusion. Savoy pointed to Den and the referee. “You two, make it happen.”

Before either could move, Boulder shoved passed them and leaped onto the cage wall. A burn on his shoulder blistered where a hot ember had landed.

“Boulder, stop!” Savoy shouted, but the man’s own screaming drowned out the words. Hand over hand, Boulder hauled his bulk up toward the barbed wire. Savoy wondered whether he even saw the razor barbs before he crashed into them.

Boulder floundered like a fish on dry ground. His screams changed from fear to agony to a fit of choking. Smoke gathered thick by the top of the cage. He twisted again and blood poured from his wounds, slicking the metal bars. When he fell, his body sent a cloud of sand into the air. Savoy saw that the barbs had claimed Boulder’s eye. Gravity had claimed his neck, and he moved no more.