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Her uncle chuckled.
Itwaswishful thinking. A pathetic hope that Rune’s suffering might be drawn out if Elma hoped hard enough, if enough gold was on the line. That she might watch as he defeated champion after champion, as blood began to stain his lithe and competent body, as his graceful movements grew staggered and slow. She wasn’t ready for it to end. The Fang couldn’t reign over the arena forever.
But as the two men circled each other, their feet kicking white snow over patches of red, her heart sank. The wolves alone would likely rip Rune’s gullet from his throat in a second. She had seen the Fang fight many times, and each battle had been different. Sometimes he used his limbs to hold his opponents, spider-like, until his wolves dealt the killing blow. Sometimes the Fang did it himself, with a snap of the neck or a crushed windpipe. But he never fought with weapons. The Fang with a sword would have been almost unfair.
Even so, Rune appeared just as confident as he had in his last fight. He twirled his weapons, their blades catching the pale sun and glinting. He was like a dancer, all controlled muscle and graceful movements.
The Fang and his wolves bared their teeth, threw back their heads, howled in unison, and attacked.
Elma watched, tense with anticipation. Every time one of the wolves lunged for the assassin, she was certain it would be the end. Yet every time, he managed to roll away or leapsideways at the last moment, snow flying up in great bouts as the fight wore on.
For a while, it seemed that he and the Fang — miraculously — were evenly matched.
Until the Fang managed to swipe at Rune’s ankle as he dodged the white wolf, sending Rune crashing to the packed snow. It was the first time Elma had seen him falter, let alone lose an upper hand.
The crowd roared for blood.
But the assassin leapt to his feet with ease, backing quickly away from the lumbering opponent. As he did, the two wolves closed in on him. And when they fell upon him, he managed to avoid a gutting, but just barely. One of the wolves bit him in the side, the other in the delicate flesh of his underarm.
Rune staggered, trailing blood as he sidled away from the Fang and his wolves.
The crowd bellowed its approval.
“You’ll be buying my drinks tonight,” said Godwin.
Not yet, thought Elma.
But as more and more of Rune’s blood graced the snow, Elma began to realize her uncle was right. The Fang was going to win. Rune was fighting for his life now, his weapons used as defense rather than attack.
Again and again, the wolves darted in to attack. And each time, Rune deflected their dagger-sharp teeth. The Fang himself hung back as if waiting for the right moment to join in.
The assassin should have been dead by now. Any other man would have succumbed, might have been killed with the first of Fang’s blows. Elma’s teeth pressed against her lip as he took hit after hit, his face a grimace of pain and rage.
And then the fight was over.Almost lazily, the Fang strode past his wolves. With a movement so quick that Elma couldn’t follow it, he fastened his overlarge hand around Rune’s throat, lifting the assassin off his feet.
Elma watched, heart in her throat, as the assassin kicked out at the much taller man. But the Fang’s arms were too long, and Rune was bleeding from several wounds.
He’s going to break his neck, Elma thought.That brute is going to snap him in half as if he were nothing.
Something occurred to her, then. An idea. A thought. A dark, wriggling notion that came from seemingly nowhere. The sort of thought her father might have had. The Volta blood ran strong in her, and there was no time for doubt.
“Stop the Games,” she said. Her voice was steady, forceful, a queen’s voice.
Godwin swung his head to stare at her. “Wh—”
“Stop the Games, now.”
The Fang was gloating, holding Rune aloft as the crowd jeered and cried out for blood.
Frowning deeply, Godwin gestured to a nearby box where the master of ceremonies sat. A moment later, a deep horn sounded, reverberating through the stone of the arena.
“I want him alive,” said Elma. “See that he’s brought to one of the warrior’s cells below. I’m going to speak with him.”
She spun on her uncle, his protests catching in his throat. She spoke as she’d heard her father do so many times when he gave orders that were not to be disobeyed on pain of death. “Donot,” she said, holding Godwin’s gaze until she knew he understood, “follow me.”
Miraculously,Godwin did as he was told. He did not follow Elma, nor did he send anyone to trail her. Shehad half-expected Luca to appear in the shadows behind her, but no one did. When she came at last to the belly of the arena, she was hit by a wall of stench. Sweat, blood, leather, and the stink of men all combined to make her gag.
“Your Majesty,” said one of the guards, clearly taken aback by the queen’s sudden arrival at the last place she ought to be. “Are you lost?”
