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“Isobel, nothing’s happening,” she heard Gwen say. And it wasn’t. Because Isobel wasn’t focusing. How could she?
Snap, clack, crack—clang!
Isobel gasped as the dagger fell from Sword Varen’s hand. Armed now with only a single blade, he staggered away from his assailant, trailing blood.
Spear Varen flipped his weapon into a better grip and, advancing on his target again, unleashed a string of onslaughts that forced Sword Varen all the way to the gates. There they crashed together, Spear Varen squeezing Sword Varen into the iron bars.
Isobel heard one of them hiss something to the other, though she couldn’t decipher what was said or which had spoken.
Then, with an angry growl, Sword Varen sent Spear Varen tumbling backward. Now, as the doubles re-entered the center of the arena, it was Spear Varen who retreated, struggling to deflect the ceaseless string of swipes and slashes.
A whip-fast swing of the sword knocked the spear aside. Moving in, Sword Varen grasped its shaft, holding it and its wielder steady with one hand. Then he coiled his blade-bearing arm, preparing to send it down on his opponent’s exposed neck in a killing blow.
“Stop!” Isobel screeched, and her cry caused Sword Varen to hesitate. Long enough for Spear Varen to reclaim his weapon and break away.
“I thought you said we had to concentrate!” Gwen snapped.
Tensing, Isobel forced herself to shut her eyes.
The clanging of weapons, scuffle of steps, and snapping of coats resumed, the mixture of sounds screaming louder and louder in her ears.
Isobel tried to push the echoing clamor aside, to concentrate on the pressure of Gwen’s shoulder against hers. She allowed the sensation to transport her back in time, to that moment at the burial site when she’d found the hidden reserves of her own strength. Again she pictured the bars dissolving.
“It’s working,” Isobel said when, to her surprise, she felt the iron loosen. “Don’t stop.”
She squeezed her fists and felt the brittle metal give. Opening her eyes, Isobel pushed forward and, wasting no time, burst through the gate as it crumpled apart like dry, rotted cloth.
Isobel hurried past the angels, who turned their focuses on her, bleeding scars opening on their cheeks.
She dashed into the arena, the soles of her shoes clapping against the marble just as, tripped by the end of the spear, Sword Varen went sprawling.
His blade leaped from his grip as he fell, and with a shriek, it glided to a stop at Isobel’s feet.
She bent to retrieve the sword, clutching its heavy hilt.
When she looked up, however, she saw Spear Varen raise his weapon high and aim the tip for the heart of his rival.
“Do you really win if you know she won’t make it out of here alive?” the felled Varen asked between heavy breaths, his chest bloody and heaving.
Spear Varen held off, his own breaths coming fast, his white-knuckled hands quivering.
“Go ahead,” said the floored double. “End it. You should know better than anybody that I’m telling the truth when I say I want you to.”
At these words, Isobel released the sword, realizing it would do her no good.
No weapon would. And no words would either.
She’d been wrong to tell Gwen she held the power to stop this. To stop them.
She couldn’t.
Because this was not her fight. Like the angels, she was on the outside. A spectator left with no choice but to watch.
Isobel rose slowly to stand, leaving the sword where it lay.
“Strike,” said the Varen on the floor.
“First, tell me why you say she’ll die,” snapped the standing Varen.
