Page 4 of Starside

I’m so close. The crowd is still partially scattered, and I use that to my advantage. The stone glimmers brightly, winking beneath the sunlight. I take another step forward—

And nearly take an arrow in the eye. At the last second, I turn, and crimson spatters as the arrow goes through the skull of the man behind me. He slumps to the dirt, body crunching the glass of discarded goblets, drinks left by those who have waited days in the same spots to catch a glimpse of the action.

A sword is gripped in his lifeless hand. It’s a lesser metal. Still, a half-starved man from the crowd lunges to take it. Another fights him.

My path has been noticed. I duck—then am slammed to the side as someone pushes past, making a run for the platform. A woman with tan skin and dark hair, cut close to her scalp.

The arrow was meant for her. That’s made clear when another one whistles through the boiling afternoon air, right at her chest. She dips to avoid it, rolls, and pulls her own bow and arrow from her back so quickly, her movements blur.

She doesn’t even stop, or slow. She just aims without looking, fires, and keeps going, before leaping onto the platform.

The archer falls from the top of a nearby building, his body hitting the road with a sickening thud.

A fourth cry.

Just seven minutes left.

I bolt, then almost trip over a body, curled low. The ridges of a spine are clearly visible through thin fabric. A head whips to the side, and—it’s just a child. Clutching a jagged piece of glass as a weapon.

My gaze lifts to the platform. There’s an opening, a gap between king’s guards already dueling other opponents. I should run. I should take my chance. But instead, I find myself crouching.

“Don’t do this,” I tell the child. He looks at me with wide amber eyes. And I know I’m a damned hypocrite as I say, “You won’t make it.”

But his mind is set, just as mine is. “My family is starving. I’m—I’m their only chance.”

I swallow past the knot in my throat. “Do they know you’re here?”

He shakes his head.

I look down at my dagger. “Listen, I—”

Before I can finish, the boy turns and lunges. He makes a run for it.

He’s small. No one even seems to notice. He might actually reach it.

A moment before he does, someone steps into his path. A king’s guard. His mouth turns into a cruel smile, looking down at the boy with relish.

Fifth screech.

I should stay back. Wait for the right moment. It’s the only way I’ll make it.

But when the guard’s silver sword comes crashing down, I throw myself in front of the boy without thinking. The dagger I’ve tried so hard to hide slips from my sleeve, and I turn it midair, until the cold hilt hits my palm. I lift it right in front of my face at the last moment. Close my eyes tightly. The guard’s sword slams against my dagger with bone-rattling force a second later.

And there’s a glorious crash as that silver shatters.

The crowd has gone silent. Slowly, I open my eyes. The guard is staring down at me, mouth agape, as if still not comprehending what just happened. Not understanding how a dagger went up against his silver sword … and won. When he finally notices the metal of my blade, his face pales.

His hilt hits the ground and he staggers back, a coward without his sword. The boy has slipped away, and made it onto the stone. Before I can join him, the crowd stirs back to life, and half a dozen people hurl at me in a wave.

No going back now.

Sixth screech.

A copper blade reaches me first, and I turn, lifting my dagger, my metal just skimming its edge—but it’s enough. The weapon breaks apart in a spray of splinters, just as a nickel sword aims for my neck. Cracks spiderweb across its blade already, the mark of either bad welding or too many fights. Either way, it takes just a brush of my metal to turn it into shards at my feet and some of the people charging forward stop in their tracks. Rethinking going against my metal. Good. Just when I think I’m in the clear, a rallying cry sounds right behind me.

The man from before, with the wandering hands, is struggling to lift his sword up as he lunges at me, sharp edge trained right at my spine.

I don’t think. I remember how those hands slipped down my body, and—