Page 41 of Fortune's Blade

And it wasn’t Ray.

I wiped an arm over my eyes and looked up, expecting to see Marlowe or one of the guards. And instead, saw my father, staring down at me. It was a shock, as I hadn’t really believed Marlowe’s explanation for his presence here, as it had seemed incredibly unlikely considering what I knew of my sire.

But it was undoubtedly Mircea.

His dark hair was as perfectly groomed as usual, shoulder length and lustrous, and caught back in a clip at the base of his neck. He wore a fey tunic and leggings, luxurious things in gray with a nap like raw silk, the local equivalent of his normal, elegant attire. But there was nothing normal about his expression.

It was something I had never thought to see on his face, not when directed at me. He was shaking me while shouting words I couldn’t hear because I couldn’t hear anything. But he looked terrified.

Oh, I thought, as realization hit.

He thinks I’m Dory.

And then I didn’t think anything else, because something was happening.

I looked up, almost blinded by the sun, and saw the great shadow in front of it wavering. That was not a surprise; I had hoped to topple the creature by my stroke, getting its vulnerable bits closer to the ground and my weapon. But after a moment, I realized that I had done more than that.

Marlowe was gaping upward, while drenched in black like someone who had fallen into a tarpit. Which it almost looked like he had, as the crater was now full of black blood that gleamed in the intermittent sunlight. And then blew up like a volcanic eruption when the enormous body overhead suddenly collapsed.

I did not at first understand what had happened, thanks to the tsunami of bloody sand that hit us, almost throwing both Mircea and me off our feet. But we braced and stood our ground, and when the storm passed, I was left blinking in surprise at the unmoving body of the feys’ champion. Who was now very clearly dead, although I did not know why.

Until I noticed the gouge mark, like a lightning blast, that scrawled around his massive leg.

It had not severed the tendon I had been aiming for, but rather the femoral artery in the thigh above. Well, that explains it, I thought, impressed at the power of the spear. I had not thought that it could reach so high, or I would have tried for that outcome in the first place, but I seemed to have gotten lucky.

Or not, I realized, noticing the furious faces of the audience in the stands.

They did not seem to like their champion’s demise. They may have been cheering me when I first arrived, but that was when they thought I would merely provide additional sport. I did not get the impression that challengers were supposed to win.

And I didn’t think that Mircea did, either, judging by the way his arm abruptly tightened around me.

I am Dorina, I told him mentally, but received no response. Perhaps because there was no time. The giant’s fall was still sending waves of sand to crash against the sides of the arena when the first fey jumped down into it, teeth bared and weapons flashing.

“Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit,” Ray said, running up as the same thing started happening all over the great space.

Fey of all descriptions were surging down the steps, were washing up against the barriers, were baring teeth and weapons at us. Most appeared to be trolls, but there were a fair number of ogres, light fey, brownies, goblins, and pixies in the mix, the latter so numerous that they looked like dark clouds against the day. Not to mention hybrids of all descriptions, many of the latter of which looked reasonably human, at least from here.

Ray had been right; we could have gotten away.

One of these days, I was going to learn to listen to him, I thought, gripping my spear, as hundreds of enraged onlookers started leaping across the barrier and spilling into the arena to avenge their fallen colossus.

“Oh, I see how it is,” Marlowe yelled, as my ears popped. “I die and everything’s fine. My opponent dies, and there’s a riot. Is that it?”

“I think that is it,” I said, and had him glare at me out of his mask of blood.

“We bookend them on either side,” Mircea said crisply, and I assumed that he was talking to me. But Marlowe seemed to have had the same thought about himself, for he answered.

“And go where?” There was some outraged arm waving. “The tunnels all lead to an infernal maze that’s impossible to break out of, and the stands are full of more people who want to kill us! Where in the hell do you expect us to go?”

“The royal box.”

“The what?”

Mircea nodded his head toward a built-up and covered area of the stands at the far end of the arena, where a canopy of bright gold, and banners of white and red, shimmered in the sunlight. It was very pretty, but I did not see how it would help us, as presumably the queen, or whoever was inside, had been enjoying the festivities right along with everyone else. Why save us now?

Not to mention the obvious fact that we would never get there alive.

“We’ll never make it!” Marlowe said, echoing my thoughts, with the surging crowd already almost upon us.