Page 62 of Blood of the Sands

The sun was low in the sky, inching toward the mountains I could now see in the distance, when Keera shifted on my back. It was the first sign of life besides shallow breaths and a light cough.

I paused, lowering her to the ground. Something tight in my gut loosened when I saw that no more blood leaked from her nose and mouth. The adenium had worked. She would survive, which meant it was time to part ways. I had saved her from the foul play of another rider to save my own name, but she was still my competitor.

Staring down at her, I took a moment to contemplate what I had done. She still might not make it back to Kelvadan, but if I had ever owed her any sort of debt for my life (a tally I did not like to keep), it was now repaid. She could simply be my enemy once more, even if she was a nuisance that pulled at my magic.

Her eyelids fluttered as if waking were not far off, and I jumped. I had lingered too long. With long strides, I walked off toward the mountains and the city at their base, away from the woman sprawled in the sands.

I tried not to dwell on why I chose to sit on the fence at the edge of the horse’s enclosure on the outskirts of the encampment as I sharpened my saber. After all, Alza had missed me as we had been separated for the better part of three days, and I wanted to make sure she was well. I preferred to take care of my own mount, and something about the Royal horse master being charged with Alza while I trekked through the wilderness irked me. Although I knew all too well that the Royal horse master cared for horses better than almost any other.

My lingering at the edges of the encampment had nothing to do with the slow trickle of competitors limping toward the gates of Kelvadan as they made their way back from the wilderness.

Once night fell, riders would set out and sweep the sands for any competitors that remained lost, although they would be eliminated from the tournament. Still, some would not return at all.

My saber was so sharp I could have used it to shave by the time a familiar figure crested the horizon. Although all the riders were crusted in sand and slumped with exhaustion, a certain stubbornness in her stumbling gate gave her away.

Keera had made it.

Before she could reach the city gates, I turned and made my way back to my tent. Zephyr fluttered to my shoulder as I walked, apparently pleased to have company again.

Meanwhile, I needed to prepare for the next event. I could not afford any more distractions. No matter how far that feral sand cat made it, I would defeat her in the duels and be crowned Champion of the Desert.

Chapter Twenty

Keera

My saber weighed heavy against my sweaty palm in the afternoon sun, the feeling of the grip foreign in a way that set my teeth on edge. In a few short months, I had already gotten used to the saber I trained with for the guard, and the blunted standard issue version passed out for the next challenge of the Trials brought me a sense of discomfort, the balance just off.

Still, I was glad this challenge would not involve drugging me and leaving me to die in the desert, instead providing me with an opponent I could face with a weapon in hand. I remained unsure of just how I had made it back to the city alive, although perhaps it was because a chunk of time was missing from my memory as I wandered in a fevered fugue. Whatever had caused my illness had worked its way from my system though, and I had woke up shivering and nowhere near the spring in the dead of night.

Neven and Aderyn had insisted I see a healer when I returned to the city, but they found nothing wrong with me outside of exhaustion and dehydration. It was nothing that a few days of rest between events couldn’t fix. Neven credited my miraculous recovery from my illness to the desert’s favor. I wasn’t so sure.

Now, I pulled my hood higher over my head to protect my face from the sun beating down from above. The searing brightness could be used as an advantage against my opponents if I positioned myself right, and I thanked the sands for the line of black paint Neven drew across my eyes before I reported to the encampment for the competition. It would absorb the worst of the sun’s rays.

The last of the competitors filed into the large, flattened area, marked off for the fight and surrounded by spectators. The herd had been thinned considerably, but I estimated about fifty competitors filled the arena.

A hush fell over the crowd as Queen Ginevra climbed the steps to the temporary dais at the far end of the arena.

“We challenge all the remaining competitors to a melee. Those who are hit should leave the arena. The last sixteen participants will move onto the remainder of the competition,” she proclaimed grandly, raising her arms. Light glanced and scattered off a series of gold bangles at her wrists. “Fight honorably and bravely with the spirit of the desert.”

The fighters all shifted on their feet, hefting weapons and sizing each other up out of the corners of our eyes. Sixteen competitors remaining would mean it was time for the final duels. While I was squarely in the middle height wise, most of the competition still outmatched me in muscle, even with me eating Aderyn and Neven out of house and home for several months.

As the judges positioned themselves at regular intervals around the edges of the arena, spectators crowded in close, jostling against each other for the best few. Coin purses jingled with people placing the occasional bet on who would emerge victorious.

I raised my saber in a ready position above my head, point facing forward with my free hand extended in front of me. The competitors took a collective breath, followed by a stretched moment of stillness.

Clang.

Queen Ginevra rang the gong, and I sprang into action. Immediately, the clash of blunted steel and grunts of exertion filled the air, punctuated by the occasional yelp. My first lunge carried me into a fighter with a blue hood at a speed that surprised even me. He moved to parry my swing, but I ducked the tip of my sword beneath his blade and caught him squarely in the breastbone.

He clutched his chest with a soft oomph as the air rushed out of him. He raised his other hand in surrender, but I didn’t wait to watch him leave the arena. Turning to the next opponent, I swung before I even zeroed in on my target.

My limbs moved of their own accord, my dissatisfaction with my weapon completely forgotten. While both the forms and sword drills had come to me more easily than my general fitness, the feeling of muscle memory that wasn’t mine grew as I fought. Perhaps fueled by adrenaline, or the freedom of my first time fighting with true abandon, my mind grew fuzzy as I landed blow after blow. A feeling of static; the sound of wind whispering through the dunes filled my head as I nearly slipped out of my body.

I watched my arms swinging my sword with more force than I knew I could muster, slapping one opponent upside the head before hitting one behind her knee, causing her to crumple to the ground. The rushing feeling in my head threatened to overwhelm me, dragging my ability to think coherently under, panic rising as my breath came faster.

Not again, I couldn’t lose—

Before I could finish my thought, my gaze caught on the flash of light off a blade. A dirk tucked behind a man’s back, glinted menacingly, certainly not dulled like the rest of the competitors’ weapons. I jolted at the sudden danger, the sight of the dirk pulling me from my fugue. He approached a tight knot of fighters, all gathered around a dark figure cutting a shadowy splash across the sun-bleached landscape.