Page 60 of Nemesis Mine
Maximillian followed. They had edged along the harbour, towards the rough stone steps that led to Ranragh’s scant pebbly beach. Cyrus was aware of the sea crowding in behind him, a persistent and unwanted audience.
“Running away, wrongdoer?” Maximillian asked in a low voice. “You’re good at that, I suppose.”
What wasthatsupposed to mean?
Before Cyrus could respond, Maximillian lunged again. He sprang away from the attack, catching Maximillian’s wrist with a slash of his dagger and prompting a hiss of pain, but the champion was relentless. He swung again, and again, driving Cyrus backwards, down the stone steps and onto the beach.
One or two of the braver peasants tried to follow them. Maximillian turned his head sharply. “Stay back!”
Cyrus seized the opportunity. His side was starting to throb with the reminder of the wound he owed Maximillian. He leapt forward, dagger outstretched—
—only for Maximillian to whip round and catch his wrist, trapping it between their bodies. He was so close, suddenly, his fingers a brand against Cyrus’s skin. A heartbeat and he was back in Heliarth, tangled in luxury sheets, his lips at Maximillian’s throat.
A gull screeched overhead. Ranragh’s familiar harbourall around. Maximillian, right there, so close their chests almost touched. His eyes, hot with anger and a strange brimming frustration. So blue.
Those eyes dropped to Cyrus’s mouth, almost helplessly. Cyrus’s heart jolted.
Then he ducked, wrenching his arm free and delivering a sharp cuff to the side of the champion’s head. Maximillian cursed and stumbled, nearly slipping on the last stone step.
Cyrus paced away from him, swiping his hair out of his eyes. A string of brownish seaweed clung to his boot. He kicked it away, sending pebbles rattling, and glared at Maximillian over the new distance between them. The people of Ranragh clustered at the top of the stone steps, their eyes wide. They were no longer close enough to hear.
Maximillian’s head came up. Cyrus tightened his grip on his dagger, bracing himself for a fresh attack. He expected mockery, something rehearsed and vicious and angled straight for Cyrus’s greatest vulnerability. Instead Maximillian’s voice was laden with frustration.
“What thefuck,” he hissed, “is your problem?”
No mention of his magic. Well, Cyrus wasn’t going to be the one to bring it up. A disbelieving laugh escaped as he echoed, “My problem? I’ll tell you what myproblemis—” Cyrus lunged again, dagger nearly nicking his cheek, but the champion dodged back just in time. They circled each other. One moment the sea stretched wide behind Maximillian, grey and sulky; the next he saw the alarmed faces of his townsfolk blurring into one. “You playing your owngame and thinking you can use me to win it. I heard what you said to that journalist. About how I’msoft. About how you have a plan to prove it.”
Maximillian’s eyebrows lurched, incredulous. “That’s what this is about?! You heard that?! Summer’s blight, Cyrus, you really thought I meant all tha—ow!”
Cyrus wasn’t having it, his name in Maximillian’s mouth. He launched himself at the champion with little else in his mind other than the desire to lash out and drag Maximillian down from the lofty pedestal upon which all others placed him. Down they went in a tangle of limbs and a clatter of weapons. Cyrus landed on top, but Maximillian immediately clasped his arms tightly around Cyrus’s torso and rolled. Cyrus couldn’t bite back a groan, his side protesting at the rough treatment. The sharp edge of a pebble dug into his shoulder, the back of his head. Everything was wet and briny, the tide was coming in, and there was something slimy beneath his right leg. Cyrus forced his body into action, driving his knee into Maximillian’s stomach, and rolled them again. But the champion only flung himself sideways, dragging both off-balance until Cyrus ended up back to the floor once more. Maximillian grabbed his wrists and pinned them to the ground.
Oh. That was—that was unexpected, and weirdly nice, except itshouldn’tfeel nice. He tried to tug against the hands holding his wrists down and immediately regretted it. All it did was confirm Maximillian’s strength, which in turn sent another wave of confused pleasure down his spine. Cyrus gulped, trying his best to ignore that sensation. The stares of the onlookers burrowed into his skin.
Maximillian wasn’t deterred. He was going to take his moment to say his piece, regardless of their goggle-eyed audience—still too far off to hear, thank the gods, but surely wondering what exactly they were witnessing as champion and wrongdoer wrestled to pin each other among the pebbles.
“I never said I had a plan to prove anything,” Maximillian snapped. His hair flopped down over his forehead; his face bore an angry flush. “And if you’d waited for me rather than slashing up my bed and running off in a tantrum, I could’ve explained that.”
Cyrus bucked his shoulders to free himself, keen to dole out just punishment for the wordtantrum. But Maximillian only held on tighter.
“Listento me. Cyrus, listen.” He spoke in a low and urgent voice now, increasingly aware that they could not hold this position for long. “Whatever you heard, I didn’t mean it. I had to saysomething.” Did that mean he didn’t doubt Cyrus’s magic after all? Did it matter if he didn’t? He’d still said it, publicly. “You’d just escaped gaol from under my nose, I could hardly afford to—”
“You called me soft,” Cyrus snarled.
“Would you have been kinder, in my position?” Maximillian bit back. “Praised me, said you actually quitelikedme, as it turned out—”
A wave crept closer, lapping at their boots. It distracted Maximillian, just for a millisecond, his head jerking up. That was all Cyrus needed. He yanked his hands free, bracing them against Maximillian’s chest and shoving. He couldn’t dislodge the champion fully but he could push him enough to make an escape—only Maximillian recoveredtoo quickly and grabbed him again. For a few blind seconds they clawed at each other, stumbling over the uneven ground, rattling pebbles giving way beneath their weight as each tried to gain the advantage.
Enough was enough. His people were watching, damn it. Cyrus stopped trying to fend Maximillian off and kicked out instead, hooking a leg behind Maximillian’s knee. The champion went down with a grunt, dragging Cyrus with him, but at least Cyrus was on top this time.
He didn’t realise they’d veered so close to the water until the sea joined the fight eagerly, rearing up to drench them with a burst of salt spray. Cyrus gasped at the sudden cold, the kind that bit straight to the bone. Maximillian surfaced, spluttering, but Cyrus dived on him again, pinning him this time. Another wave broke around them, white froth pulsing into the gaps between his fingers.
“Cyrus, you absolute—”
“If you didn’t mean it, why would you come here and start a fight knowing there’s only one way it can end?” The words burst out of him, loaded with frustration where he’d intended aggression. Salt stung his eyes, clung to his lashes. A hard breeze whipped at his cheeks, and his sodden hair slapped at his forehead, dripped a steady, cold deluge down the back of his neck. One droplet rolled down the bridge of his nose.
Maximillian blinked as it landed on his cheek. He looked pathetic. There was seaweed in his hair.
“You’re in Ranragh. My home. In front of—” Cyrus broke off, shaking his head. What were his townsfolk thinking? He shouldn’t be holding back. He should beshoving Maximillian under the next wave that splashed around them.
