Page 32 of Nemesis Mine
Maximillian had met the attack with a parry, his face contorted in a snarl—aimed at the now-cowering guardsman, not at Cyrus himself. Just for a second, Cyrus saw him as he must appear to all those watching: the vengeful champion set on his quarry, enraged by the thought of anyone else cutting into his glory. His teeth were bared, almost animalistic with it, fury radiating from his burning eyes.
“He’smine,” hissed Maximillian.
Cyrus allowed himself a moment, just a moment, to stare at Maximillian’s terrible snarl. To take in every detail of it—the ferocity and the rage, the savage curl of his lip.
But he could not allow himself to be distracted. Whilst Maximillian glowered at the guardsman, Cyrus lunged to his feet, knocking the sword clean out of Maximillian’s hand and sending them both crashing to the ground.
Over and over they rolled, each trying to stay on top. One moment Cyrus had Maximillian pinned, knees digging into his muscled abdomen; the next he’d been flipped onto his back hard enough to knock the breath from his body. He drove an elbow into Maximillian’s side, vicious, savouring the stunned gasp. With Maximillian so close he felt that gasp against his cheek, the huff of warm air over his own lips. He could almost taste it, Maximillian’s breath and sweat becoming one with his own.
Maximillian groaned. He was still winded. Cyrus forced his advantage by clambering on top, getting his knees around the champion. Maximillian resisted immediately, trying to throw him off. Cyrus could feel the strength of him as he bucked and squirmed beneath him, straining against his hold. He would not be moved, his thighs squeezing tighter. Maximillian made a little choked sound, wide eyes flashing up to Cyrus’s face. Cyrus stared down at him, breathing hard. To all those watching, it was the cold look of a villain surveying his prey. Between them, his eyes held another meaning.
Ready?
This was the only part of their interaction that they had discussed, a little plan for how their performance needed to end. Cyrus demanded the opportunity to show that he was indeed capable of besting Maximillian, to undo some of the damage from that false report in the news. Maximillian was giving him this; he would yield, in a fashion, even if the fight wouldn’t truly end there.
Maximillian’s chest heaved under him. A bead of sweat journeyed to nestle in his clavicle, drawing Cyrus’s focus. Then Maximillian gave the tiniest jerk of his head. It looked like nothing, but Cyrus knew it was agreement.
Ready.
In one fluid movement, Cyrus brought his dagger up and tucked it to Maximillian’s throat. The tip of his blade pricked the droplet of sweat, pressed wet to hot skin.
Maximillian went very still. Someone screamed from the crowd. Another sobbed. Cyrus paid them no heed.
“Yield,” he said softly.
He could feel Maximillian’s heartbeat in the wrists pressed to his knees, could see it jumping in his throat beside the burnished flat of his blade. It would take so little effort to turn his dagger, let the sharp edge gorge itself on delicate skin. This level of trust from Maximillian—hisenemy—made him feel giddy, ferocious, impossibly alive. Maximillian had been right. Lifewasboring, wrongdoer and champion alike. A game like this, an opponent like this, someone as likely to twist the blade as to yank it free... this was far better than any scheme he had embarked upon alone. The fun lay in the risk.
Cyrus looked up. Scores of faces stared down at him, each twisted in alarm but frozen, like the slightest movement might make him slip and end Maximillian’s life.
“See how I bring your champion low?” Cyrus roared. The sudden volume of his voice made Maximillian jerk beneath him. The crowd cowered. He twisted his expression into a savage grin. “See how I force him to yield before me? I am Cyrus, Earthshaker, and this is how easily I defeat your best! I do not even need to use my powers!”
Maximillian’s hand had crept up to rest on Cyrus’s thigh. Braced to shove him away, or so it would seem. He felt Maximillian’s fingers ghost against him, then squeeze slightly in warning, and jolted as a shiver licked up his spine. Not that Cyrus didn’t appreciate the signal, but he found himself wishing that Maximillian could have found another way to get the message across. The hand against his thigh was distracting, his body registering the touch as pleasant when it should be anything but.
When Maximillian suddenly bucked beneath him, sending him crashing sideways, it was almost a relief to be rid of their proximity. Almost, because while it might all be part of the plan, Cyrus still managed to bang his head against the floor.
“Howeasilyyou defeat me, wrongdoer?” Maximillian shouted as he climbed to his feet, voice raised above the clamouring crowd. He was flushed and glorious, hair mussed, green shirt dipping improbably low over his sun-kissed chest. Actually, the shirt was a little ripped—had Cyrus done that? He hadn’t been actively trying to claw open Maximillian’s clothes, but perhaps he’d not been thinking—
Maximillian bent to pick up his fallen sword and began to advance, nice and slow. Cyrus stood his ground, letting the moment linger for their audience’s benefit—champion and wrongdoer facing off onstage, perfect adversaries pitted against each other.
“I do not yield,” said Maximillian. “I would never yield to the likes of you.”
“Touché,” said Cyrus. He was finding it increasingly difficult to keep the grin off his face, and not one that would have suited the picture they were painting. “Well, as wrongdoers never yield either...” He took a leisurely step back, reaching for his powers.
It had been the one point he had harboured a small doubt about. Maximillian thought that he could simply call a very minor earthquake to distract everyone and make his escape, and he couldn’t very well admit that that wasn’t the case. He’d pulled a face and muttered something about big shows of magic taking a lot of mental energy, obscuring his lie in truth, and let Maximillian think that was the reason he was less than keen. They’d settled on a compromise: no earthquake, but the threat of one. Cyrus just had to evoke his magic enough to stir up fear and panic.
It wasn’t necessarily easy—Cepha sat south of the Beks, far from the lush forests that spanned the north—but it was doable. Cyrus cast an eye beyond the boundaries of the amphitheatre, where a sparse collection of trees from barren goat enclosures peered forlornly over the city wall.
Cyrus reached for the trees with his power. They shrank from him, wary. He concentrated harder, pictured himself exhaling magic into their gnarled old branches, letting itflow down into parched roots and flood them with purple light. Maximillian covered for him, trailing him across the stage like a cat stalking prey—but slowly, giving him the time he needed.
The trees hesitated. They did not have much to give. But Cyrus did not need much from them—only the connection, to let the purple light flow forth in warning and in threat.
He opened his eyes.
Maximillian wasn’t quite quick enough to hide the flash of awe that crossed his expression when he took in the glow of purple fire. Cyrus revelled in it, satisfaction coursing through him until his magic strained at his fingertips.
Maximillian took a step back. He let his eyes widen in alarm that quickly spread to the watching townsfolk.
“Earthshaker...” he said warily, and the word rippled out across the crowd. It seemed to ripple across Cyrus’s skin too, Maximillian’s voice a caress.
