*******
Arus fought desperately to hold off Anton's increasing intensity. Eaisan shouted words of encouragement and guidance while Vultrel watched in silent desperation, a desire to join the fight clear in his eyes. Arus was finding it harder and harder to ignore the pain that flooded his body, both from the burns on his chest and the bloody cuts he'd received from Anton's blade. His left arm was covered in crimson, and a new slice on his chin was dripping. He felt weak, tired, queasy, and defeated. "Anton," he breathed, barely deflecting another attack. "Please stop this. I don't know how much longer I can last."
Anton's eyes flicked again. He brought his blade around with a flourish and swiped outward with all of his might. The force of his blow knocked Arus' sword from his hands and sent it sailing to the sand several paces away. Arus collapsed to his knees, panting with exhaustion, but unwilling to surrender. Anton rotated his broadsword in his palm so that the blade was pointed downward and raised it for the killing strike.
"Anton!" Eaisan shouted at the same time as Vultrel screamed, "Arus, get out of there!"
Anton stood with his weapon poised, panting heavily, sweat rolling down his chest. "I will . . ." he began, trailing off. His knuckles turned pale as he gripped his blade tighter, and his arms began to quiver. "I—WILL—NOT—BE—CONTROLLED!"
The blade came down, and Arus instinctively raised his arms to shield himself from the blow. The weapon never touched him. Anton plunged the sword through his own body, impaling himself to the hilt. He let out a brief whimper of pain before collapsing to the ground. Blood soaked the sand immediately, gathering in the footprints before sinking through the grains. Arus stared at him wide-eyed, shock and disbelief overwhelming him. He could feel tears welling up before he could control himself. Anton . . . We may not have always gotten along, but you didn't deserve this. I'll make them pay, Anton. I swear it!
The crowd of Mages fell silent. Some nervously looked toward Sartan Truce; probably hoping for an explanation, Arus thought. He won't have a chance to explain. He'll die by my hands, now. He could hear the chains of Truce's prisoners shaking violently behind him amidst Vultrel's shouts of profanity and Eaisan's demands for retribution. Master Eaisan rarely lost his composure, even in battle, but being forced to watch one of his own students commit suicide had pushed both he and Vultrel over the edge. They bombarded the Mages with an endless stream of curses and threats, none of which they were in any position to carry through. But I am!
Arus' face darkened as he lifted his sword from the sand. He refused to look at Anton's fallen body any longer—I'll not remember him like that!—and instead focused his hard stare on Sartan Truce. His anger and frustration boiled, this time of their own accord, pushing his steady walk toward the staircase ahead. Olock handed a short sword to Sartan and stepped aside as Truce began to descend toward the arena floor. His expression was harder than Arus' own, if possible, and his eyes were narrow beneath a heavy scowl. The crowd quieted further, so much so that Arus barely remembered they were there. If he defeated Truce, they would surely kill him, but the price would be a small one.
"Arus, stop! He'll kill you!" Vultrel was shouting. He and Eaisan turned their threats into protests once Arus stepped toward the Mage. But Arus ignored their pleas and twisted his sword in a dramatic flourish around his body. Adrenaline surged new life into him as Sartan came to the bottom of the stairs and stepped around Kitreena's fallen figure.
"Arus Sheeth; son of Dayne," he began, his voice shattering the stillness of the cavern. "We have been destined to meet since your father killed mine. And though Aratus Truce was a fool of a leader, his death elevated me to the head of the Vermillion Mages, and it is my duty and responsibility to see that my people rise again. Like Dayne Sheeth and Eaisan Lurei before you, and Kindel Thorus before them, you seek to prevent the rejuvenation of my people; the rebirth of the kyrosen. But let the body of your fallen comrade," he pointed his sword at Anton, "let him be a symbol to you of what we are capable of. His death brings with it a wealth of knowledge that I will use to create the ultimate soldier. Take a good look at him, Arus." The grin was back. "Your destiny awaits."
Arus charged with a scream that would've startled even the fiercest of mountain lions. His sword met Truce's with a deafening clash, sending a shower of sparks to the sand. He unleashed every technique and every form that Master Eaisan had taught him, stringing them together in one seamless motion. Blood mixed with sweat and ran down his body as he moved, unwilling to allow any amount of pain hold him from what he knew must be done. For his father, for Anton, and for every other helpless soul that was lost to the Vermillion Mages. It had to be done. I have to kill him.
Sartan fended off the young man's attacks with ease, his short sword meeting Arus' blade with every swing. The grin of arrogance never left his face. It taunted Arus like a carrot in front of a mule, and the boy's hunger was strong. They circled the arena in battle, trading blows and dodging fatal strikes. A few times Arus' eyes caught Vultrel's open-mouthed stare—he'd never seen his training partner fight so passionately—but both he and Eaisan were solidly bound by the heavy chains. And though Arus knew he could use their help, a part of him was glad to have Truce all to himself. Sparks flew with nearly every blow, glimmering faintly as they fell to the ground. This can't be all he's got. He's holding back. Why doesn't he fight harder? And why hasn't he used any magic?
"You are good raw material, boy," Sartan said has he knocked Arus' long weapon to the side. "But you still have much to learn."
Arus grunted as he brought his sword around for another strike. "I know more than you think!" He dropped to the sand just as Truce moved to deflect the blade and swept his leg out. Sartan's blade swooped down like lightning, tearing through the fabric of Arus' pants and sinking into flesh. Arus rolled away with a yelp, folding the leg against his chest and clutching the gaping wound along the side of his calf. Adrenaline brought him back to his feet in moments, though he was forced to shift all of his weight to his good leg. Blood soaked the lower half of his pants below the injury. I'll die before I allow Truce to put one of those implants on anyone else. I can't give up. I just have to wait for the right moment to strike. All swordsmen have flaws. I just have to find his. The room spun for a moment, and the ground wavered beneath his boots. Stay focused. A little loss of blood never hurt anyone. But this was more than a little. The gash on his shoulder that Anton had given him left most of his left arm covered in blood, and his chin had been dripping the entire time. Combined with the overwhelming heat of the cave, it brought a flood of nausea and disorientation that nearly made him topple over. At the rate he was going, consciousness wouldn't be with him much longer.
"Come on, boy!" Truce was taunting him. "I would expect the blood of Dayne to perform better than this!"
It was an effort for Arus to block his attack, but he managed to continue, focusing only on each thrust as they came, rather than trying to strategize. Just watch for an opening. There will be one. There has to be one. He struggled on, hoping Sartan's arrogance would leave an opportunity to strike. But his vision began to blur, and his knees finally buckled. He landed on all fours, panting heavily as he fought the darkness that crept in from all sides.
Sartan laughed mockingly. "A pitiful display from someone so bold." He turned toward the audience of Mages seated on either side. "But he shall not be pitiful when I am through with him! I promise you this, gentlemen: In less than one week's time, we will ascend from these wretched caves and take up residence in the palace of Asteria! And this young boy, along with Eaisan and his son, will lead our way forward!"
The crowd erupted into cheers and applause, weapons and fists held high. Arus glared up at Truce, who was thrusting a triumphant fist into the air, his attention on the audience of Vermillion Mages.
Now!
Arus lunged with the last ounce of energy within, sword aimed for Sartan's heart. But hi
s legs quivered, and the blade landed higher than he'd intended. Truce growled sharply as the weapon pierced his shoulder, and a fiery blaze formed around his own. With a snarl of anger he brought the flaming sword down on Arus' left shoulder, cleanly severing his arm. Arus' cry filled the cavern as he collapsed to the ground, vainly clutching the bloody stump that remained of his shoulder.
"ARUS!!" Eaisan shouted, tugging frantically at his chains. Vultrel echoed the scream, his bonds leaving welts in his arms and legs as he pulled against them.
Sartan wiped the blood from his shoulder with an emphatic gesture as though it was more of a chore than a comfort. Olock and F'Ledro were already at his side, looking down uneasily at the bloody young man. "Prepare the operating room, Olock," Truce said quietly. "We're going to have to move faster than I'd expected. Do you think we have the proper supplies to accommodate for this?"
"I think so," Olock said with a nod. "We'll probably have to reprogram and hardwire the implant this time, considering what happened with Anton."
"Agreed. F'Ledro, take care of the girl and our other prisoners. We have to get right to work if we want . . ."
Their words faded as consciousness slipped away from Arus. He'd never felt pain like this, though it seemed trivial compared to his failure to eliminate Truce when he had the chance. Six inches lower . . . Just six inches lower, and I'd have . . . defeated . . .
The thought went unfinished.