Magic Strikes(29)
roared. The silent audience stared in shock.
He was seven feet tall and layered with slabs of hard, carved muscle that stretched his coal-black
hide. His short fur flared into a shaggy mess on his chest and ran down his stomach in a narrow line
to widen at his crotch, striving but not quite succeeding in masking his generous endowment. A
fringe of hair climbed his thighs and the backs of his arms to droop in a long mane off his massive
neck. Two pale horns protruded from his skull. His face was a meld of human and bull: a bovine
nose and a bovine mouth, but human eyes peered out under the coarse ridges of his eyebrows. A
braided beard dangled from his bottom jaw. His legs terminated in hooves. His arms ended in hands
that could enclose my face with their thick, blunt fingers, only two per hand and a thumb. The spear
in his right hand was the size of a two-by-two.
I remembered to close my mouth. «A werebull?»
«No. Something much more exotic,» Saiman said. «He was born this way and he doesn't
shapeshift into a human. He's a minotaur.»
Arsen dug the sand with his left hoof, kicking it up, and shook his head. Gold loops of earrings
glittered in his left ear. He was power, strength, and rage, bound in flesh and straining to be
unleashed.
Mart didn't move. He stood, the two swords in his hands pointing down and apart.
«Arsen is my personal fighter.» Saiman's voice vibrated with pride.
«Where did you find him?»
«Greece. Where else?»
«You brought him over from Greece?» By boat. With sea serpents and storms. It must have cost
a fortune.
Saiman nodded. «It was worth it. I have no resources to waste on cheap things. I would sacrifice
a considerable sum to have the Reapers humiliated. This was a mere pittance.»
Arsen bellowed. His eyes locked on Mart. He lowered his head.
Mart simply stood, unmoving and silent.
Moist air puffed from the minotaur's nostrils. Arsen hunched his shoulders and charged.
He came roaring down, impossible to stop, like a battering ram.
Mart made no move to evade.
Twenty feet. Fifteen. Twelve.
Mart leapt into the air, unnaturally high, like a piece of black silk suddenly jerked out of sight.
He sailed over the minotaur and landed on its shoulders. For a moment he actually rode on Arsen's
back, balancing with laughable ease, and hopped off, light as a feather, into the sand.
Arsen wheeled about and lunged, thrusting his spear in a classic Greek move. Mart dove under
the thrust, deflecting the arm with his shorter blade. His katana kissed the inside of Arsen's right
thigh. In a split second, Mart reversed the strike, sliced Arsen's left thigh, and twisted away from
the minotaur's reach.
It was blindingly fast. «He's dead.»
«What?» Saiman glared at me.
«Arsen's dead. Both femoral veins are cut.»
Thick gushes of red stained the minotaur's thighs. Mart turned on his toes, faced our box, and
bowed with a flourish, bloody swords held wide.
Rage twisted Saiman's features into an unrecognizable mask.
Mart walked away to the Gold Gate.
Arsen let out a weak moan, more of his lifeblood spilling with every palpitation of his heart. His
knees hit the sand. With a shudder he toppled forward and fell facedown.
The crowd exploded in a rabid crescendo of cheers. Saiman surged to his feet and took off
through the balcony door. I waited about thirty seconds to put some distance between us and ran out
of there as if my hair were on fire. As far as I was concerned, the night was over. It was time to go
and track down the Red Roof Inn.
CHAPTER 11
EVEN THE BEST PLANS HAVE A FLAW. MINE HAD two: first, I had no clue where the
Red Roof Inn was, and second, I had no transportation. The first problem I resolved with relative
ease: I grabbed the first Red Guard I came across and interrogated him. The only Red Roof Inn in
the area lay to the west, on the way to the South-West ley line, twenty minutes by horse or a good
hour on foot. Forty-five minutes if I jogged. It was close to 2:00 a.m., and with the magic up, the
odds of finding a horse to commandeer were nil. Anybody sensible enough to ride a horse wouldn't
be out at this hour, and if they were, they could defend themselves and would take a rather dim
view of losing their mount. I should've brought my running shoes.
I emerged into the night. The magic had robbed the entrance to the Arena of its electric
illumination. Instead runes and arcane symbols glowed red and yellow along its walls, their intricate
patterns weaving the solid wall of a ward. One hell of a ward, too-the whole building shimmered
in a translucent cocoon of defensive magic, sealed tighter than a bank vault.
I inhaled deeply and let the air out, exhaling anxiety with it. The Arena behind me loomed,