Page 93 of Nemesis Mine
A woman a handful of years younger than him withshort silver hair and the tattoo of a snake winding around her neck came careering down the path towards them. The weapon raised above her head, a mess of spikes protruding from a machete and a mallet melded together, looked alarmingly homemade. Cyrus barely had time to take that in—that, and the look of malicious glee twisting her face—before he realised with a rush of ice that he was not the target. Max was.
There was no time for thought, to unsheathe a dagger. It was fortunate that Cyrus’s magic did not require time or thought, now so tightly wrapped around his being that it flared instantly in their defence. Before the wrongdoer could get that spiky mess anywhere near Max, the nearest yew sprouted new branches from ancient boughs, hurtling out with deadly accuracy to seize the attacker by the legs. She yelled as she went down, though she clung to her weapon with grim determination. The branches extended further, ruthlessly efficient, trapping her arms by her body.
Once the wrongdoer was well and truly ensnared, Cyrus turned to share a look with Max. Max was staring at the wrongdoer with such astonishment he’d forgotten how much pressure he was applying to the young man’s neck. A red line welled up against the milky skin.
“What,” Cyrus said, “the fuck just happened?”
Max glanced at him, then at the youth, whose throat convulsed around a swallow. Hastily, he loosened his grip.
“Who sent you?”
“Nobody sent me,” the boy whispered.
Max arched an eyebrow. “Sorry, did you prefer it when I—”
The sword pressed tighter again. Blood welled once more. The youth squeaked and Cyrus watched in impressed silence.
“Nobodyhadto,” the man choked out. “The Federation won’t rest until the two of you are brought to justice, everyone knows—”
Cyrus’s eyes travelled between his flushed face and the wrongdoer, who stared at him with such intense dislike that she still managed to look faintly intimidating despite being trussed up by a tree.
“You’re working together?”
“I’m not working withher!” the Federation youth cried, flushing with revulsion. “She’s a wrongdoer! I’m here to bring glory to my family and to the Federation bykillinga wrongdoer!” His wide eyes found Cyrus, blinking hard. “You!”
The wrongdoer sneered. “And I would never sully myself by partnering with a champion,” she hissed. She looked Cyrus up and down. Her dirty look could have given Soulripper a run for her money. “Someof us have standards. I’m here to kill a champion.” She jerked her chin towards Max with disdain. “He’ll die by my axe, and everyone will know that champions are not welcome among the ranks of wrongdoers.”
“Oh,” said Max, looking at the fallen weapon. “That’s what that is.”
If Cyrus didn’t have two pairs of equally hate-filled eyes fixed upon him, he would have ground his knuckles into his temples to try and ease the bubble of hysteria rising within him. So aside from the Federation bringing their considerable might against them, they could also expect tocontend with young champions with notions of gloryandlone wolf wrongdoers who had taken umbrage to the way Max and Cyrus had blurred the lines between their camps. Great.
Cyrus was, abruptly, really quite done with it. All of it, champions and wrongdoers alike.
He blew out a breath, turning to Max. “Any suggestions? I have an idea, but...”
Max shrugged. He looked a bit like Cyrus felt. Half bewildered, half ready to close his eyes and pretend they weren’t here. “Go for it.”
Cyrus turned away, nudging the horses back so that he could touch the yew’s trunk in silent instruction. His magic pulsed beneath his fingertips, pleased. The wrongdoer couldn’t stifle a furious yelp as the branches suddenly twisted around her, dragging her back against the trunk and binding her tightly. The champion received the same treatment. His panicked squeal as the yew enthusiastically secured him beside the wrongdoer wasn’t very dignified.
The sprite, watching with wide eyes until that moment, suddenly flew over to the tree, buzzing in their faces and examining how tightly they were tied. The champion spluttered; the wrongdoer snapped her teeth at it. The sprite just retreated to perch atop Gutgrabber’s saddle with a satisfied nod.
“You know,” Cyrus said idly, as though this was a daily occurrence for him, “Maximillian here just betrayed the Federation. Athaca’s all in a tizzy over it. Caused quite a lot of chaos, he has, so I’m not sure that killing him should technically be a wrongdoer’s priority.”
Max’s mouth twitched, catching on. “And Cyrus just saved thousands of people in Durov from being crushed,” he informed the red-faced Federation youth. Cyrus rolled his eyes at the blatant exaggeration. “Not very noble of you to reward such selflessness with brutality, is it?”
The young man squirmed, a futile attempt to escape. “You lie!”
“Yeah, he does,” said Cyrus fondly.
Max shrugged. “Believe me or don’t. It’s the truth.”
The pair glared, jaws set in matching stubborn juts. Not so dissimilar. Almost like another wrongdoer and champion Cyrus had once known.
“Well, why don’t you stay here until you’ve worked it out,” Cyrus said lightly, as though they had a choice. He paused, considering the vines. His magic would fade once he moved on. “Or, you know, one of you escapes and kills the other. I don’t really care.”
“Neither do I,” said Max. “Good luck.”
Cyrus flashed them a cheery thumbs-up, then grabbed Soulripper’s bridle and swung himself into her saddle. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”
