Page 15 of Nemesis Mine
“You have spirit!” he shouted, striding back and forth between the tavern and the nearest home, letting his torch tip this way and that. The peasants shrieked like he was a deranged musical conductor.
The tavern drew him in—the thought of all that liquor ready to burn, the frantic squeeze of too many bodies trying to escape the doorway. Some would probably be drunk. He could watch as they tumbled over in their desperation to flee.
Target selected, Cyrus stepped forward, ignoring the cries this time, and touched his torch to the tip of the straw roof.
“STOP!”
The rich, deep voice was instantly recognisable. So too was the pleasant shiver down Cyrus’s spine, the triumph of having caught the attention of the one he sought.
It was too late. The flames licked their way into the roof, feeding greedily upon the dry straw. The stink of burning rose thick in the air, the familiar crackling giving way to screams. Cyrus stepped back, forcing himself not to turn just yet, to enjoy the sight of the tavern door bursting open as the peasants began to spill forth in a panicked horde.
Among their screams was a word, a name Cyrus could pick out above the clamour and the sparking hiss of flames.
“Maximillian!”
“He is here, Maximillian is here!”
“Maximillian has come to save us!”
Cyrus closed his eyes and smiled. Then he took a deep breath and turned on the spot.
There he was, standing across the village square, the fire throwing out shadows that danced and cavorted across his noble features. He radiated fury, a wronged god, mouth set tight in anger and the fathomless blue of his eyes turned cold as Cyrus’s heart. There was a small red mark on his cheekbone where the pebble had struck him the day before. Cyrus wanted to reach out and touch it, run his fingertip over the imperfection. Then he wanted to dig his fingernail in and make him bleed, mark him with the knowledge that he had faced Cyrus andlost.
The breeze picked up, taunting the flames. Maximillian’s cream shirt billowed as the fire twisted and spat. The champion seemed to glow in its reflected light, as if he too wielded magic. Yet Cyrus knew he was not so special as to call upon any powers of his own. He was ordinary, an empty vessel of preening, posturing pride.
“You overstep, wrongdoer,” Maximillian said coldly.
Cyrus’s smile defied any attempt to control it. He probably looked like a mad thing, a grinning demon, but so what? Power thrummed in every bit of him, his magic twisting and writhing and begging for release.
“I don’t think I do.” His voice was soft, but he knew Maximillian would catch every word.
He weighed the flaming torch in his hand, watching as Maximillian followed the movement. Then he threw it to the ground. It rolled a couple of paces and came to a stop, the flame guttering in the breeze. It wasn’t near any of the buildings, but someone still let out a sob of fear. The sound drew Cyrus’s attention back to the people from the tavern, huddled a safe distance behind Maximillian. He hadn’t noticed them gather there at first—he had been too fixed on the champion—but now he offered them a predatory smile.
“Relax,” he said, sweetness coiling around the word. “I’m not here for you. I’m here for your champion. If he will fight me, then I have no quarrel with you.”
“You’ve already picked a quarrel with them,” said Maximillian sharply. “You’ve burned their tavern down.”
Cyrus sniffed. “Don’t be a drama queen,” he said, which was probably a bit hypocritical, but it was his party and he would call the shots. “It’s just a bit of fire on the roof.”
From behind him, the tavern groaned and trembled on its foundations. The resounding crash of the roof caving in rang around the village.
The villagers cried out. Cyrus risked a glance over his shoulder.
“Oh dear,” he said offhandedly. “Well. At least that put the fire out.”
When he looked back to Maximillian, the champion’s face was set in resolve. He took a step forward, his hand going to the hilt of his sword.
That was more like it.
Cyrus opened his arms wide. The daggers on his belt glinted in what was left of the light.
“Come and get me,” he said coyly.
Maximillian charged. He was before Cyrus in a heartbeat, sword arcing above them. But Cyrus was fast too. He sidestepped, ducking under the slice of Maximillian’s sword. It came close enough for Cyrus to hear the whistle as it cut through the air, buffeting cold air that grazed his cheekbone like a kiss.
Cyrus straightened up. No time to stop and admire his own move. Maximillian lashed out at him again, and again. Cyrus gritted his teeth as one blow glanced off his vambrace. Maximillian hounded him back a step and back once more, the sword a near-constant presence at his throat, his chest. It was an intricate dance and for a handful of seconds he had no time to think, moving on sheer instinct as he dodged each attack, a counterstep for each inch of ground Maximillian gained.
Maximillian backed him up against the smouldering remains of the tavern, suddenly driving his shoulder into Cyrus’s chest to send him careering backwards. Cyrus staggered and fell, a jagged piece of wood slicing into the flesh of his thigh. His flailing hand, thrust out for balance, caught hold of something that was still aflame, the heat of it biting viciously into his palm.
