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I can do this.
She felt Havily’s hand on her back very gently, a tender and welcome support. The comforting gesture allowed her to finally draw a deep breath.
“This looks like the Super Bowl,” she cried.
Havily nodded. She leaned close and spoke into her ear. “It’s time for the next leg of the journey. You ready?”
Alison glanced at her and snorted. Also leaning close, she said, “Do I have a choice?”
Havily shook her head. She straightened her spine. “Give ’em hell, ascendiate.”
She guided Alison to the edge of the cordoned-off battle terrain, a lake of black matting scored with two opposing white diamonds.
Once at the rope, Havily stopped. The applause had not ceased, nor the stomping of feet, nor the boos during her entire march. Once again, on several well-placed screens she saw her face, her serious expression, as Havily leaned close and spoke into her ear.
“The area to the left belongs to Endelle’s faction and the opposite, of course, to the Commander. When you hear the bell you must desist fighting of any kind and return to the white diamond on the floor nearest Endelle. I will bring you restorative drinks.”
She then inclined her head and glanced in the direction of the stands. “You will want to acknowledge Madame Endelle at this time.”
Alison followed her gaze and watched as the Supreme High Administrator of Second Earth nodded to her. Alison returned a formal dip of her chin. The Warriors of the Blood flanked Her Supremeness, four on her right and four on her left. They wore the same formal regalia as Kerrick. All remained seated. Beyond, thousands of Militia Warriors, both male and female, stood applauding, cheering and stomping their feet. Her gaze slid to Kerrick, seated just to the left of Endelle. He met her gaze, put a fist over his heart, then inclined his head to her. Though the gesture brought tears to her eyes, it also calmed her, eased her.
At least until Havily motioned with a sweep of her hand to the break in the ropes.
The time had come.
Her heart pounded in her chest, in her throat, in her head. Her ears rang. Once more, she couldn’t feel her feet.
Before taking this last step, she glanced at Havily, who met her gaze, then sent, I will beseech the Creator for help on your behalf. She offered a solemn formal bow then turned and walked in her sedate manner to take up a seat in the front row among others dressed in similar formal business attire.
Alison suddenly wished she was back in her beat-up Nova, heading for the library, or Starbucks, or the nearest AMC. She wished she’d never heard of the Borderlands or the Trough or Second Earth. And why on earth had she ever sent that hand-blast into the air?
Too late now.
The moment she stepped through the opening in the ropes, the decibels of the shouting on both sides increased exponentially. She moved to take her place in the white diamond, her back to the Supreme High Administrator.
She scanned the rows opposite and her gaze came to rest on the Commander, on Darian, her former client, now her enemy. He sat on an elevated dais in a very large, tall-backed carved chair. She still wondered the why of it, the year of therapy, what he could have meant by it and why he had chosen such a public place to orchestrate her death.
His faction was surprisingly lacking in pomp and splendor, but then that wasn’t really his style. His generals bore a few feathers and interesting hats, which harked back a couple of centuries. However, in the thousands of seats beyond him, his warriors, many of them death vampires, sat in quite plain black uniforms, the front-piece turned back to reveal a triangle of maroon. In stark contrast, the Commander wore one of his elegant suits, a crisp white shirt, and a maroon-and-black tie. No sash, no Roman-influenced headgear, no thick row of medals, no braiding.
He appeared, therefore, as she had always known him, the way he had come to her office in his expensive wool. His beautifully shaped bald head glimmered beneath the powerful arena lights. He leaned to one side, slightly to his left, both wrists settled on the armrests of his chair. He appeared relaxed yet wholly in command. Power rippled over him, around him, through him.
Had she ever really known him?
The answer had to be no.
Though his army continued to boo her presence, the Commander met her gaze, smiled, then inclined his head as though nothing more were at stake than the results of an egg-and-spoon race at a picnic.
Whatever.
Uncertain exactly what was expected of her, she rather thought that if she was going to fight one of the Commander’s most powerful generals, she ought to be armed. As soon as the thought appeared in her mind, her identified sword appeared in her right hand, a single, swift maneuver, her fingers wrapped around the leather grip.
A tremendous cheer erupted from behind her along with a renewed vigorous stomping of feet. She took up the warrior stance, learned from Kerrick’s memories, then settled the tip of the sword on the soft matting. She waited now with her left hand behind her back.
Endelle’s crowd continued to cheer and stomp, another show of support, which brought her blood pressure down a little and her determination skyrocketing.
After a full minute of standing with her sword balanced next to her, Endelle’s army began to boo quite suddenly.
The enemy’s chosen warrior approached, though from where she stood she could not yet see him. She saw the floating cameras, though, stationed just outside the arch of a tunnel at a diagonal from her position. A moment more and his face appeared on the screen, followed once more by a sharp increase in audience response.
Alison drew in a sharp breath.
Leto. The warrior who had come down through the Trough, who had thrown the shredder bomb in the alley, who had appeared on the street flanked by death vampires while Kerrick had driven her absurd little Nova away from the downtown Phoenix Borderland.
Leto. Former Warrior of the Blood. The Commander’s right-hand general. A traitor.
God help her.
For a full minute he stayed just out of her range of vision but he used the cameras to incite the crowd with a ferocity of expression, which worked the warriors behind her into a fury of more stomping feet and shouting voices, a storm of rage.
When he finally appeared, she worked hard to maintain her composure. Leto topped out easily at Kerrick’s height. He was quite handsome and wore his black hair pulled back in the traditional warrior cadroen, which she took as a reflection of his former Warrior of the Blood status. Beyond his height, and also like Kerrick, his shoulders went on forever. He wore a black leather battle kilt and black leather gladiator-like shin guards and sandals. He had oiled his bare chest, which emphasized his enormous pecs and solid rippled abs. As he walked, he carried his sword arrogantly balanced against his shoulder. He kept his gaze pinned to her, his lips a grim line, his chin lowered.
