Chapter 9

Jerika, for all the confidence she had shown Fyron, was far from assured of her victory here. Zara had always had an edge of ruthlessness that allowed her to defeat just about anyone in a one on one match. Rika was intimately aware of Zara’s strengths, having faced her in Feol’s arena before and having been forced to “spar” with her multiple times as a punishment for a sloppy conclusion to an assignment. After every session, Rika had crawled away bloody, frostbitten and hypothermic, if she were able to move at all. 

A shiver of anticipation- for she refused to acknowledge it as fear- raced down her spine as Zara smirked, an arrogant and predatory twist of the lips, ice crystals glinting at her blackened fingertips as first one spear of ice, and then another, sailed toward her. 

A deep steadying breath allowed Jerika to dodge Zara's attacks, even as she called upon the deep wells of power within her. She reached out to the rocky earth surrounding them and summoned forth stones of all sizes and shapes to act as both a shield and projectiles. The larger, smoother stones she held close, overlapping them slightly to be her defense. The smaller, shaper stones, she fanned out over her head, ready to fly with a thought.

“Same old tricks. Jerika, do you think for a moment that you can beat me with those now? You’ve never even come close even when in peak condition and you are far from peak condition. I suppose if I were the principled sort, I’d promise you a quick death, as painless as I could make it. But I’m not and I have missed your screams. If you are determined to throw your life away for that brat, I suppose the least I can do is make it fun.” 

Endless spears of ice flew toward her at impossible speeds or exploded from the ground seeking to impale her, but Jerika was ready, ducking, blocking and dodging each strike. Zara was nothing if not predictable; her attack patterns hadn’t changed since the last time they’d fought. Jerika wondered if she should point out the flaw in Zara’s attack now or wait a bit. Pointing it out now would certainly enrage her, making her sloppy, but it would also give her more time to overcome that flaw in her offense, decreasing Rika’s chance of a victory.

Rika decided to save that particular taunt for later, a simple one would do for now, “Given the state of your fingers, you must have used your magic quite a bit while tracking us. Were you nervous about facing me and had to practice on every deer, bird and rabbit between here and Thyr?”

Zara’s face flushed crimson in either embarrassment, fury, or both, highlighting the silver cloud-like markings that covered her from blackened fingertips all the way to her hairline, and further if the silver streaking her shoulder length dark hair were any indication.

Jerika flung two of her sharp stones simultaneously, forcing Zara to split her attention and managing to land a scratch to the delicate skin just below Zara’s right eye. For a moment Zara seemed shaken before the woman shook it off and redoubled her attack.

“Such a fierce reaction for such a tiny blemish. Worried that your looks are all you have going for you? Think that Feol will toss you aside if you lose to me and come back scarred? Remember dear, the healers can only do so much with wounds over a few days old and it’s a long way back to Thyr.”

A hoarse cry tore from Zara’s throat as she launched herself at Jerika, the ice at her fingertips solidifying into twin blades, no longer than daggers for now but growing ever larger with each passing minute.

Unable to dodge indefinitely, Rika concentrated, pouring her desperation to protect Fyr into her well of magic and watching as the power boiled to the surface. Liquid metal bled from the iron rich stone and danced around her, an intricate lace of molten metal. She pulled with all her might, condensing and shaping the iron, she poured the anger in to keep the metal malleable until it attained the desired form, even in the bitter cold that pervaded their fog bounded clearing. 

A masterpiece took shape and it was as if the world held its breath for the process. A long haft, weighted perfectly for Rika’s strength, formed, followed by two razor sharp blades, one at either end, allowing the wielder to defend against multiple attacks at once. Once the reassuring weight of her weapon was in hand, she stirred her protective instincts and fueled her magic one step further, edging the blades in flame.

From that moment, every move was calculated to attack, defend, dodge or provoke. Jerika fell into a rhythm and lost herself in it. The cool mist of the fog bank, the whisper of the evening breeze, the crackle of the frozen ground beneath her feet, the smell of wet earth and even the presence of her traveling companion all faded away.

Soon both women were panting clouds of steam, perspiration beading and frosting over as it was exposed to the frigid air. They circled, their magic poised and ready but unused for the time being. Gone was the cloud of ice shards that followed Zara like a train. As was the ring of stones that had served as Rika’s shield. Only their weapons remained, hanging limply from trembling, fatigued arms. Neither spoke, the time for taunts was over.

“Um… Jerika?”

Fyron’s quavering voice broke through her tunnel vision, his use of her full name- something he’d only done once since the day they’d met- putting her on alert for more danger than just Zara. 

That was when she noticed the cloaked figure holding a dagger to Fyron’s throat. The flames lining her blades flared brighter as her desire to protect surged, revealing dark eyes glinting beneath the hood. 

"If you want to live, remove your blade."

Rika hardly recognized her voice, so deep and cold and deadly. Fyron's eyes widened in surprise at the change but he didn't dare move an inch, the trickle of blood already staining his collar proving what would happen if he did.

"Stand down or the boy dies."

The stranger's voice was no less frightening, a deep baritone with a deadly edge. Rika weighed her options. 

Bitter laughter broke the icy silence, "After refusing to kill him even at the cost of your own life now you don't have to. You can have it all and not have to lift a finger."

Jerika closed her eyes, took a deep calming breath and focused on the earth beneath her feet. When she opened them again, she was met with a stunned silence and Zara's lifeless form impaled on a thin lance of quartz, her mouth still open in laughter.

The stranger withdrew, hands raised signaling surrender, "I merely wished for justice. That one had been killing my people," he said, nodding toward the grotesque display.

"Understandable. But you threatened an innocent, you injured my friend in the pursuit of it. For that, there is no understanding, no forgiveness. "

The man hung his head before his dark eyes met hers, gleaming with defiance and determination, "For my people, I do what I must."

"Would you die for them?"

"Without question. "

Rika nodded, tightening her grip on her weapon, "Good, because you're about to."

"Ri!"

Everyone froze as Fyron called her name. His trembling form drew her gaze, he looked… not fearful but furious. 

A quick burst of lightning later, the stranger sat, stunned, on the ground as Fyron raced and flung his arms around Rika, oblivious to the blood and sweat staining her bronzed skin. 

Rika, while never taking her eyes off the hooded stranger,  allowed herself to relax into Fyr's embrace, his warmth beginning to thaw her icy bloodlust.

"There's been enough death today. We still need to get to Aarav, to the safehouse-" He cut Rika off as she attempted to protest him revealing such things with an audience, "and I think our new friend can help with that. Isn't that right, your royal highness?"

Wait. What?

With a low, dangerous chuckle the stranger lowered his hood to reveal the ebony dark skin, strong features and dark brown eyes of the royal family. Though his right eye was now an icy blue and surrounded by a fiery mage mark. 

"Clever boy. What gave me away?"

Fyr shrugged carelessly, "Your accent reeks of Yadeth, but tempered with the lilt of the Eastern villages. Also the way to talk is too formal, certainly a noble of some kind. Your grip on the dagger speaks more of defensive stances than offensive, as if you were taught- by an actual weapon master- to use it primarily to defend yourself. Add that to the skin tone and hint of fire magic I sensed and it added up."

Rika stared at Fyr in wonder even as the stranger, no, the… the prince? broke into laughter. 

"It would seem I chose my hostage poorly. The clever little lordling is correct. I am Micaiah, formerly of the royal house of Malik. Exiled and disowned after I lost control of my magic."

Fyr smirked as he nodded, eyes glinting with amusement, "And now the leader of the mage underground. "

Her mind whirled as Rika fought to make sense of it. It, it was too much. The mental fatigue from weeks on the run coupled with the physical fatigue from her fight with Zara, and now this? She felt her weapon slip from her hands even as darkness closed in at the edges of her vision. She had to stay awake, she couldn't pass out here, not now. But there was no fighting it. She was so weak. She hated it. 

"Fyr…"

She saw panic cross his face before her vision darkened and his voice rang in her ears as the darkness closed in. The last thing she knew as unconsciousness took her was the warm strength of gentle hands protecting her as she fell. Then, nothing.