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The second bag missed her by half a second. The third went too wide, spinning a full foot away from the vampire knight. Another moment, and Bestata was out of range, running toward the next platform.
The next otrokar, a large red-haired female, bet on strategy rather than speed. She spun the first bag, sending it in a circle toward Bestata, grabbed the second bag, aimed it slightly to her right, and let it go. The first bag curved, slicing through the air. Somehow the vampire knight sensed it coming and leaped to a pillar on the side, right into the path of the second bag.
The crowd froze.
The second bag flew toward her, straight at her chest. Bestata swung her left sword. The black blade whined, priming, and the bag plunged to the bottom of the arena, sliced in half, its sand spilling like victory confetti.
The spectators roared.
Bestata sprinted. The otrokar swung the third bag, but it was too late.
In the observers’ section, Karat leaned forward, laser-focused on Bestata, clearly reevaluating her threat potential. Dagorkun shook his hands and bellowed in his battle voice, “Throw the damn bag! Don’t swing it, idiots, throw it!”
The third otrokar, a lean, powerfully muscled older male, clearly a veteran, must have heard him. I was pretty sure people all the way in Dallas probably would’ve heard him if I hadn’t soundproofed the arena.
The veteran grasped the bag with one hand, leaned back like a javelin-thrower, and let it loose. The bag tore through the air and smashed into Bestata just as her right foot touched the next pillar. The bag exploded into a fountain of sand. For a torturous half second, she teetered on the verge of falling fifty feet to the sand floor below.
If she fell, it would hurt. A drop that large would damage even a vampire in syn-armor.
If she fell, I had to catch her.
Bestata leaped backward, her arms spread like wings, turning her fall into a jump. Her right sword plunged to the ground. She threw her right arm out, above her head as she flew, and just as her body began to fall, she caught another pillar with her hand and clung to it.
The crowd screamed, House Meer in triumph and Surkar’s delegation in outrage.
“He hit her, he hit her square in the chest! It’s over!” Someone howled from the otrokar section.
“No part of her touched the ground!” House Meer screamed back.
The veteran otrokar on the last platform hefted the second bag, took aim, and threw it. Bestata flexed her arm and leaped straight up, onto the pillar. The bag smashed against the stone, missing her by a hair.
Bestata charged forward, leaping with inhuman grace.
The veteran snarled, grabbed the rope of the last bag, and jerked it down. The top of the pole snapped. He caught it, ripped the rope from it, tore the bag off, and swung the rope like a lasso.
Bestata was almost to the final pillar.
“Cheater!” I hissed into my earpiece.
“Do I stop it?” Gaston asked.
“No,” I growled.
“Let it play out,” Sean said.
The otrokar hurled his lasso. Bestata twisted like a dancer on one foot and sliced through the rope with shocking precision. Before the crowd realized what had happened, she jumped to the last pillar and pulled off her blindfold.
House Meer surged to their feet, cheering. Karat stood up, raised her hands over her head, and clapped. Next to her, Dagorkun stared at Surkar, held his right hand out, palm to the floor, and brought it down, as if pushing an invisible lever. A Horde gesture usually reserved for younger people and subordinates who brought shame to those around them. It meant, “It’s over, and nothing you can say will fix it.”
Surkar clenched his fist and pounded his chair with it.
The veteran screamed, venting his rage. Bestata pointed her sword at him and motioned him forward. He started toward the edge of the platform. Oh no, you don’t. I pulled a tendril from the inn. It grasped him around his waist and deposited him back into the otrokar section.
It took another five minutes to get the arena back to its previous state and to get everyone to calm down and take their seats. Finally, the stage was back, and I stopped the white light under the Gaheas. Nycati made his way to the stage. He held a string instrument in his hands, somewhere between a lute and a zither.
Oh good. Hopefully this would be elegant and soothing, and everybody would calm down and catch their breath.
“I am but a simple student of music,” Nycati said. “Please forgive me for offending you with my inferior talent today. I was prepared to play one of our classics, an ancient melody that many before me have played with much more skill than I could ever hope. But I have been inspired. I bring a new melody to you today, one that has never been heard before. I dedicate it to Lady Bestata.”
