Page 96 of Avalon Tower
“Go on, Nolan!” Darius shouts. “You’ve got this!” He turns to us, muttering, “Gods, he’s hot.”
Cheers erupt through the crowd until Wrythe stands and raises his hand. “Wait for the command to begin!”
Silence settles. My heart is thudding, almost as if I’m standing in the trial ring myself.
Wrythe seems to be drawing out the waiting, and a nervous hush settles over the arena. The long, silent wait feels excruciating, and my chest muscles tighten.
I can almost imagine myself out there on the dirt, facing off against one of the better-trained cadets. Waiting for the moment when a sword might pierce my gut, an experience I have no desire to repeat.
As I hug myself in the rain, Tana’s warning about the trials still rings in my mind. Death hunts you. During the trials, the darkness will start to envelop you. If you don’t survive, we all die.
The rain is pounding down now, turning the arena into mud. Without waiting for the command to start, Nolan lunges, his rapier poking Horatio’s shoulder. The crowd starts roaring, and I realize I’m screaming as well, cheering for Nolan. His attack was sharp, seizing the element of surprise. Horatio wasn’t expecting that.
I have a good feeling about Nolan today.
“Begin!” Viviane shouts, even though they’ve already started.
MI-13 spies aren’t honorable. We fight dirty, and we take pride in it. Better to be cunning and alive. I suspect Nolan will actually earn a point for attacking before the trial formally began.
Horatio swings, and Nolan barely dodges, rolling aside in the mud. I expected Horatio to take a second to recover, since his sword is huge and cumbersome. But when Nolan thrusts again, Horatio easily parries him with his blade, then swings and hits Nolan’s foot. With a sinking feeling, I realize that Horatio is much stronger and faster than he appears. He can easily handle that enormous hunk of metal, swinging it as if it weighs nothing. Godsdamn it.
Nolan now seems more cautious, eyeing Horatio carefully. He jumps back as Horatio swings again, then rolls to avoid another swing. He’s buying time. Trying to exhaust his opponent.
“Come on, Nolan!” Darius cheers.
I glance across the yard at the judges. Their faces are impassive and show nothing. The only sign of emotion is the tightness in Viviane’s lips. I recognize that expression from the hours upon hours I’ve spent with her in training. And I already know what she’s thinking. Nolan won’t be able to exhaust Horatio. She’s frustrated with his decisions.
Horatio looks like a lumbering idiot, but he’s tireless. He can spar for hours. I’ve seen him do it. Nolan should know that. He should have paid attention. When possible, we’re expected to know everything we can about an opponent, and in this case, that includes the other cadets.
Sure enough, Horatio keeps swinging, not even breaking a sweat. His swings seem clumsy, but I can see his footwork, his poise. He’s trying to fool Nolan, make him think that he’s a mindless brute. Horatio, I think, is much cleverer than he lets on.
Nolan finally parries one of Horatio’s swings, then, with an elegant twist, thrusts forward with his stiletto. Horatio stumbles back.
“Yes! Go Nolan!” Serana screams.
“No…” I mutter. “Don’t fall for it—”
But he does. Emboldened by Horatio’s stumble, he moves forward, thrusting directly at Horatio’s unprotected chest. Horatio’s sword blocks it. Quick as lightning, Horatio tears Nolan’s rapier from his hand, sending it flying. Another swing smashes into Nolan’s arm.
The blade is dull, but it’s still heavy, and Nolan screams in pain, an agonized, animal screech, and I wonder how badly that arm is broken.
Tarquin and his friends are now the ones cheering, wild with victory.
Darius, Tana, and I can only watch in silence. I glance at the judges, wondering when they’ll call an end to it. Quite clearly, Nolan can no longer fight.
From what I can tell, Viviane and Amon seem to be arguing with Wrythe. From here, I have no clue what they’re saying.
Nolan’s arm is hanging limply by his side. All he has is his stiletto, held in his left hand. His non-dominant hand.
If he could, this would be the time to surrender, but surrendering in a trial of combat means failure. The worst thing an undercover agent can do is surrender because if the Fey take us prisoner, they will torture us until they’ve extracted every last bit of damaging information from our minds. An agent is expected to fight to the death. Or in this case, until the judges call it.
Which they aren’t. They could, but they don’t seem to want to.
Wrythe stands with his arms folded, shaking his head. Viviane is screaming at him, red-faced. Maybe she wants to call it.
And then Horatio goes for Nolan. Not just one swing, but a series of punishing lashes, swiftly and expertly delivered. Hitting his chest, his leg, his broken arm. Nolan stumbles back and collapses.
Wrythe finally nods, and Viviane turns toward the combatants.