Page 95 of The Only Way Out Is Up

Star! Get back here!

[Analysis: trying. This thing has ahold of my leg. It is proving more stubborn than expected.]

Quech strolls through the hole in the wall, hands shoved nonchalantly in the pockets of his asymmetric coat. When he spots me, his face brightens.

“My friend from Malkuth! You made it!” He gives an impressed whistle. “But where’s your little spider? Still a smear on the arena floor?”

Star! I need help!

[Panic: I am trying!]

“He’s around,” I say, trying to give the impression that Star will leap from behind a corner at any moment. “Coming up short of points, are you?”

“I’ve got…” Quech ticks off fingers up to four, then shrugs. “Doesn’t really matter. I’m enjoying myself.” He glances up at Vripiai. “Shall we try for five?”

The snake launches itself forward, a mass of steel barreling toward me. Pick a side to dodge, left or right; get it wrong and I’m shredded meat. Terror makes me hesitate for a moment, just a moment too long—

Something cannons into Vripiai from the side, slamming him against the wall so hard the boards crack. It’s another runic, not Star but a big four-legged thing like a horse with an eagle’s head. Its long beak rips out a chunk of steel and wire from the snake’s neck while its foreclaws rake Vripiai’s side. The damage isn’t fatal, and the snake wraps its length around the horse-thing’s middle and starts to squeeze. The two of them strain against each other, metal screaming.

“You fucking coward.” It’s a young woman’s voice, the horse-thing’s master. She’s standing on an overhead bridge, glaring down at Quech with her hands on her hips. She has bright eyes and a short blond ponytail, and wears an elegantly tailored outfit that looks made for the occasion. “Can’t win a fair fight so you’re looking for stray masters to pick off?”

Vripiai screeches as the horse-eagle takes another chunk out of it, but its coils continue to tighten. Quech looks at the struggling pair, then shrugs.

“Nothing special about a fair fight,” he says. “A win’s a win, however you get there.”

Then he moves, faster than I would have thought possible for such a big man. He sprints at the wall, jumps, and gets just enough height to wrap his hand around the other master’s boot. She shrieks and stumbles as his weight pulls her off the bridge. They land together, Quech in a crouch, the girl badly; her shriek becomes a scream as something in her lower leg snaps. Before she can move, Quech grabs her face, his hand so big his fingers reach both her ears.

“What I do hate,” he says conversationally, as the horse-thing’s armor starts to crumple under Vripiai’s pressure, “is being lectured.”

Wham, he slams the back of her head against the wall. Wham, again, leaving a smear of blood. Her scream becomes a keening wail, muffled by his palm, and with an ugly crunch he batters her a third time. Her eyes roll up in her head, and he drops the twitching body and turns to me, shaking drops of blood from his hand.

“You—” I swallow. “You can’t.”

“It’s not against the rules.” He laughs. “I asked specifically. Masters aren’t a threat to other masters.” He holds up his huge, bloodstained hand. “Because we’re not allowed weapons, you see?”

Behind him, Vripiai uncurls from around the dead horse-eagle and lets out a hiss, sparks flaring from the gaps in its armor.

Shit. Shit shit shit—

[Panic: I’m coming, the ball is dead, I’m—]

A deep bell rings out.

The contestants—the surviving contestants—gather with their runics in front of the judge’s platform. Several of them need to be carried out on stretchers, with broken limbs or worse. I’m not sure if Quech accounted for them as well, or if there are others whose sense of honor doesn’t prevent them from taking an easy victory.

The girl who saved me, of course, is carried out as well, under a white sheet already staining red with gore.

Star stands beside me again, a little too close, as though still worried we’re going to be attacked. I pat his metallic flank, and he bumps me with one limb.

[Query: you’re certain you’re all right?]

I’m fine. I reach for a flippant tone. Are you worried about me?

[Retort: obviously I’m worried about me. You’re so fragile. And if you die we lose the tournament.]

Let’s hope we didn’t lose anyway. Two points may not be enough.

[Analysis: if Quech accumulated more points than necessary, it helps our chances.]