Magic Strikes(53)

might not penetrate all that muscle.

The Reaper wore black boots, and nothing else. Swirls of henna designs covered every inch of

his pale body. He carried two heavy bearded axes, sharpened to razor gleam, each three feet tall.

They were meant to be used two-handed.

Saiman entered the ring, his long legs moving slowly. He towered over the Reaper by a foot or

so, which made the axe fighter just over seven and a half feet. Despite the height difference, they

probably weighed the same. You could see Saiman's ribs, and the Reaper would have trouble

picking up coins from the ground without crouching.

A Red Guard closed the fence door and scurried away to the protection of the wall.

As the gate clanged shut, the resolve drained from Saiman. A light trembling began in his arms.

He hunched his shoulders. I could taste his terror from where I stood. The Reaper sensed it too and

grinned, baring his teeth. They were filed to points, like the teeth of a shark.

The smell of blood and hot sand invaded my nostrils. I squinted against the bright glow of huge

feylanterns and took a step to the Pit . . . and almost bumped into a guard barring my way.

«No further. If you exit the gate, your fighter forfeits the match.»

It wasn't my fight.

I leaned against the golden arch. Jim halted next to me. It was up to Saiman now.

The Reaper tossed one of his axes in the air. It spun, the bluish blade shining as it captured the

torch light, and he caught it with deft quickness. The crowd loved it.

A gong tolled through the chamber. As its deep ring died, Saiman glanced back at us.

«Come.» The Reaper's voice was a raspy growl, touched with that same accent I couldn't quite

place. He motioned with his axe. «Come! I cut you down to size.»

Saiman hesitated.

«Come!»

Saiman turned halfway, facing me. His eyes brimmed with fear. We should've never put him

into the damn Pit. He wasn't a fighter. No matter how big he was, unless he had courage enough to

kill for his survival, he would be simply cut down.

«Move,» I whispered. That first step was the hardest. Once he broke the dread chaining him and

struck the first blow, he would be fine. But he had to move.

The Reaper raised his arms wide as if asking the audience for an explanation. Boos and jeers

erupted, at first isolated, then gaining strength, until they swelled into a wall of sound.

The Reaper held up his axe. The noise died down. «I cut you now,» he announced.

He advanced, flexing, hefting his axes. Saiman took a step back. The Reaper smirked and kept

coming. An ugly grimace skewed his face. He raised the axes and charged.

Saiman dodged, but the edge of the left axe caught his thigh. Blood drenched the frost-white

skin. Shock slapped Saiman's monstrous face. The axe fighter paused to soak in the applause.

Saiman stared at the blood. His lips trembled. His eyebrows came together. A wild light danced

in his deep eyes.

Pain, I realized. Pain was his trigger. Saiman was afraid of pain, and once it lashed him, he

would do anything to keep it from hurting him again.

With a terrible bellow, Saiman swung his club. The Reaper leapt aside and the club smashed the

ground, sending a spray of sand into the air. Without a pause, Saiman swiped the club up and

charged. The Reaper jumped back. The club's steel spikes fanned his face. The Reaper ducked left,

right, but Saiman whipped the club at him as if it weighed nothing. The axe fighter ran.

All thought vanished from Saiman's glassy eyes. He roared and chased the Reaper back and

forth through the Pit, his face terrible to behold, his mind lost to fury. I wasn't sure he knew where

he was or what he was doing here, but he knew he had to kill the fleeing Reaper.

«Ice him,» Jim murmured. «Ice him.»

Our stares met and he shook his head. Like the Norse warriors of old odes, Saiman was lost to

his berserker rage, too far gone to remember he had magic.

The Reaper stopped. As the club whistled past his chest, a hair short of ripping him open, he

pivoted and struck at the club's handle with his right axe, trying to knock Saiman off balance. It was

a good move. Saiman's momentum, aided by the Reaper's strike, would drive the club forward,

leaving the Reaper free to cleave at Saiman's right arm and side.

The axe connected to the club. Ice swallowed the blue axe blade, shot up the handle to the

Reaper's arm, and caught his fist. The Reaper screamed. Desperate, he chopped at Saiman's elbow,

but the giant let go of the club, hurtling it and the Reaper into the wire fence. The Reaper's back hit

the wire right in front of me. He barely had a chance to bounce off. Saiman loomed above him, his

face deranged, locked his hands into one enormous fist, and brought them down onto the Reaper's

skull like a hammer.