Page 59 of Nemesis Mine
Well, he couldn’t reach the front two corners, but the other three were fair game. Cyrus hefted the scythe, took aim, then set off at a casual stroll along the line of stalls, slashing each rope as he went.
The groan of the canopies as they collapsed was lost to the yelps and shrieks from those beneath. Most shoppers leapt backwards, but some of them got caught up in it too, screeching their alarm. Someone staggered into a table and knocked it over; Cyrus heard the crash and the flurry of panicked swearing. Potatoes skidded everywhere. One peasant had become entrapped in his own canopy, blundering blindly about with the rough fabric enveloping his head.
Cyrus emerged, scythe still in hand. He gave the panicking peasants a few seconds to notice him. He was gratified by the hush that fell. Then he tossed the scythe to the dust and pushed his hood back from his face, slowly, savouring the drama.
Some intakes of breath, pale faces in the periphery of his vision. An uncomfortable, tense silence. Even the peasant still draped in his own canopy had the sense to stay quiet.
Nobody spoke. Nobody dared. But Cyrus wasn’t finished yet. There was plenty more fun to be had in Ranragh, and wrongdoingdidcheer him up.
Leaving the scythe where he’d dropped it, Cyrus walked at a leisurely pace through the square and towards Ranragh’s main street. The crowd parted swiftly for him. Nobody wanted to be too close. All along the street, conversations cut off abruptly as people saw him coming. They edged into doorways and pressed themselves flat against uneven walls as he passed, as though he might not notice them if they stood very still. A whisper reached him, vindication flaring hot in his chest.
“—Earthshaker, he’s on a rampage—”
Some people from the square followed him, at a careful distance, morbid curiosity drawing them to witness whatever chaos he might call upon their town. With the peasants trailing behind, Cyrus glanced up. An innkeeper had thought to hang baskets of flowers by her upstairs windows, vivid pink fuchsias and a bright burst of lobelias. How sweet. A minute jerk of his head, a flash of purple that no one saw, and the plants lurched away from the wall, baskets and all. He enjoyed the squeal as a flurry of soil and roots landed on somebody’s head.
The main street wound down to Ranragh’s harbour. The brackish tang to the air grew more pronounced, the wheeling gulls overhead more raucous. A door slammed hurriedly to his left, the proprietor of Ranragh’s Fishy Bits keen to keep her premises off limits. A sea-borne gust whipped at Cyrus’s cheeks as he rounded the final corner, the harbour spreading before him. Grey-green waves slopped insistently at the harbour wall, and fishermen eyed him warily from the tangled nets strewn by a stretch of barnacle-encrusted rock sloping down into the sea.
Cyrus stopped, breathing deeply. Salt licked the back of his throat. Who to target next? Three taverns loomed precariously close to the water’s edge along the eastern side of the harbour, and groups of ale-addled peasants could oftenbe found slumped at rickety tables outside. There wasn’t much in the way of vegetation around the harbour, but perhaps he could call on the bindweedwormed between cobblestones, get it to tip up a table or two—
“Earthshaker!”
No. No-no-no. There wasno fucking way.
But the peasants had heard it too, a flurry of hopeful murmurs grating at his nerves.
“Earthshaker,face me!”
Cyrus turned. There, striding up Ranragh’s main street, with a face like Winter’s thunder and his sword in his hand, was Maximillian.
The people of Ranragh mouthed his name, parted for him as easily as they had parted for Cyrus, and with obvious relief. Maximillian barely seemed to notice them. He didn’t slow down until he was right in front of Cyrus.
Rightin front of him, bare inches between them.
Maximillian’s skin, pressed against his. Their mouths meeting, hot and greedy, teeth digging into his lower lip as his fingers tightened in that thick bronze hair.
Cyrus blinked. For a terrible second, he forgot to be angry as the memory of arousal pulsed through him.
Then reality kicked in. Maximillian, here, in Ranragh. Cyrus’s territory. Before his people. Challenging him.
He took a breath—steady, thank the gods—and kicked his tongue into order.
“Maximillian.” Ice dripped from Cyrus’s tone. “I see there is no limit to your stupidity.”
Maximillian’s eyes bored into Cyrus. “What, cominghere?” His voice was tight. “Well, you came to Heliarth. Thought I’d repay the favour.”
Cyrus fought to keep his expression impassive, as though the mention of Heliarth didn’t make his stomach drop. At the back of his mind, his thoughts whirled, trying to piece together Maximillian’s motivations. Why did he look angry? Surely he wouldn’t—this couldn’t be about exposing the truth of Cyrus’s magic? The hollow feeling in Cyrus’s chest was back, only this time it really was hot with swelling rage.
Without breaking Maximillian’s steely gaze, Cyrus rested a hand on the dagger at his belt. His movements measured and deliberate, he freed the weapon until it hung loose and ready by his side. Still Maximillian didn’t look away.
“Come on, then,” Cyrus said quietly. “Repay the favour.”
He was only distantly aware of the gathered crowd, the way their heads swivelled from champion to wrongdoer. His attention was eaten up by Maximillian: the angry set of his jaw, the way his fingers flexed around the hilt of his sword. The tension between them was so thick it felt stifling.
Maximillian swung for him. Cyrus dodged backwards. To any other eye, it would look like a nasty blow. But Cyrus knew him.
“Come on,” Cyrus mocked. “You can do better than that.”
A flash of fire in those blue eyes. Maximillian lunged again, the crowd scattering. The swing of his sword was ferocious this time, driven by temper. Cyrus ducked and came up behind Maximillian, dagger gripped tight andintent on slashing him, but Maximillian spun before he could. He rammed Cyrus with his shoulder, knocking him off-balance. Cyrus staggered backwards a few steps, his side pulsing. He fought not to make any show of it, straightening up and breathing hard.
