Chapter 17

  Some say the world will end in fire,

  Some say in ice.

  From what I’ve tasted of desire

  I hold with those who favor fire.

  But if it had to perish twice,

  I think I know enough of hate

  To say that for destruction ice

  Is also great

  And would suffice.

  - Robert Frost, “Fire and Ice”

  She waited on the mossy rock, cross-legged, her leviathan-toothed ivory spear across her lap. The sun climbed up into the sky, heating the rocks, drying out her skin. She did not move, not even to wet herself in the cold sea which threw itself against the dark stones just down the hill. She had spent a day finding this spot, preparing it, throwing the gauntlet. She waited patiently. Her enemy would come.

  The enemy arrived just before the sun reached its noontime zenith. A single-occupant hovercraft, a slider, cut through the air from the west. It sailed over smooth stone slickened by the crashing of surf. A red figure detached itself from the slider as it flashed past overhead. The figure struck the stone in a nimble roll, came up standing, faced Rosma from ten paces away. Her slider coasted to a halt out over the low scrub further inland.

  Akkama wore her battle garb: flexible red leather reinforced with alloyed plates. She had a sword at her hip. She gave Rosma a fanged grin. “The hero co…” She paused, then burst into a snicker, unable to finish. “What…what happened to you?” Akkama bent over with laughter, holding her belly as Rosma glared at her. “No need to get all fancy just for me.”

  Rosma did not reply. She merely stood, took a long drink from her canteen, and emptied the rest over herself, wetting her scales—which, thanks to a certain thrice-cursed color priest, were mostly dyed a bright pink. That had been days ago, and only now did the color begin to fade.

  She tossed aside the canteen, took up her spear, and faced her opponent, watching closely.

  Rosma knew that a feverish, outrageous sort of fearlessness possessed Akkama thanks to the curse of the Desert Watcher. She would answer any call to battle against any foe. Yet she was no fool, and would not likely have accepted a duel in the water itself. Here, on a low stony hill overlooking the rocky shoreline, Akkama would welcome a challenge.

  Yet Rosma was no fool either. She cared only for leaving this place alive, and for leaving Akkama dead behind her. She shifted her position just enough to feel the object taped to her back, its presence reassuring.

  Akkama sauntered closer to Rosma, squinting against the brightness of the sun. She surveyed the terrain, but did not look quite close enough. Overconfidence. The belief that her valor and skill were alone sufficient to carry her through any situation. Rosma hated that about Akkama—her unthinking, unswerving self-confidence. Today it would be her undoing.

  “Anything to say, Rosma?” asked Akkama, still grinning, her tone mocking. “You could still just…walk away.” Useless words.

  But Rosma did have one thing to say. “Thou shalt meet justice this day, Akkama.” She assumed a fighting stance, felt the warm rock under her bare feet, felt the eternal agony crawling inside her bones.

  Akkama scoffed, her stance nonchalant, as though she had no need to prepare herself. “I don’t fear your justice. I don’t fear you.” She spread her arms wide as though indicating everything in sight, the sea and the hills and the clouds. “What should I fear?” She laughed and, in a smooth motion, unsheathed the blade at her side.

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  “Thy courage,” Rosma replied in a quiet voice, “reeks of desperation.”

  That made her angry. Akkama’s arda glimmered like coals stoked by the sea breeze. The edge of her blade flickered with heat. She danced toward Rosma, stepping in short bursts over the dark stone.

  Rosma spat a wad of dark blood and dashed forward to meet Akkama.

  Most land dwellers moved as though submerged in water compared to Rosma. She darted toward Akkama’s right side, pulled to the left at the last moment, slashed low at the legs. Akkama’s blade was there, parrying the serrated stygian tooth of Rosma’s spear.

  Rosma planted her feet in the rough stone and twisted all the momentum of her speed into an arcing jab at Akkama’s heart. Akkama spun narrowly aside. Rosma continued the assault with a flurry of stabs so swift that Akkama could not evade them all. Her armor deflected several and some met that dragonsteel blade, yet one bit flesh—a long scrape long Akkama’s left arm.

  Akkama danced away, her blade held up in the defensive, suddenly wary. Wary, but still with a broad, infuriating smile. “Oh, Rosma,” she said. “This will be fun.”

  They clashed in a lunge, and for a long minute neither gave ground. Rosma’s spear was swift as lightning, the tooth sharp and deadly. It danced in her hands; it twisted and parried. She had slain many with this very spear. No one, in the end, was quick enough.

  But Akkama was not overwhelmed. She predicted Rosma’s attacks with reckless confidence, and her dragonsteel blade flashed fire and trailed a curtain of rippling heat behind it with each shining arc.

  They parted, panting. Each leaked blood from only minor wounds. Akkama still smiled, her fanged grin as smug as ever. She was sure of victory. She could not imagine otherwise.

  Could Rosma have defeated Akkama here on the rocks, on dry and level ground? Perhaps. Perhaps not. Unlike Akkama, she did not care to find out. She cared to win.

  So Rosma backed away and to the left as though intimidated, perhaps flustered that her attack had failed, seeking a new angle. Akkama smelled blood in the water and pursued, circling.

  When they were in position, Rosma reached behind her and flipped the switch. The focused laser detonators, designed for asteroid mining, carved through the stone in the blink of an eye. A flashing light described a wide circle around Rosma and Akkama. Before either could react, they were already falling.

  Darkness surrounded them. The sound of many tons of stone plummeting into water deafened them, echoing in the cavern. A broad circle of light illuminated the roiling waters from twenty feet overhead where they had stood a moment before.

  Rosma dove into the water the moment that it embraced her; she chased the stones down through the cold waves. Other figures lurked down there, startled by the falling stones but easily avoiding them. They smelled the blood.

  Akkama swam at the surface above Rosma, treading water, getting her bearings. Her arda lit the cavern red. Just now she would be understanding what had happened, comprehending the trap. Akkama would be thinking that she needed to get out of the water. But it was already too late.

  Rosma struck from below, glowing blue, propelled by the surrounding water. She channeled all the force of her rapid ascent into the strike. Somehow, unbelievably, Akkama sensed the blow coming. She twisted awkwardly in the water so that Rosma’s spear pierced her thigh rather than her abdomen. Akkama retaliated with a swing that nicked Rosma along the shoulder. Still dangerous, even here.

  Rosma approached again from beneath, swift and silent in the water. Akkama tried to swim for some place to climb out of the water, and again she somehow dodged. A thrust meant for her chest took her under the arm. This time Akkama coiled in the water like a snake, and she struck out at Rosma with unforeseen savagery and reach. That burning blade bit deep into Rosma’s side, trailing bubbles as it boiled the water in passing.

  Rosma backed away under the surface, one hand on her new wound. Too dangerous, Rosma decided. Even here, Akkama was too dangerous. No matter. There was no need for further risk on her own part. Her allies were with her now, dark shapes in the waters around her.

  Rosma dove away from Akkama. The sharks left her alone; she was one of them.

  She emerged on the far side of the cavern, fifty feet from Akkama. Rosma breached the water at speed and clung easily to the rough walls. She turned and watched.

  Akkama’s screams—curses and cries of pain—echoed in the small space. She thrashed in the water, her movements one chaos with the attack of the sharks. Akkama’s arda shone brighter and brighter, casting a red glare on the waters, making it dance in reflection on the walls. The dragonsteel blade burned, and hot red blood flowed. The water boiled from movement and heat. Rosma felt the warmth radiating even from her position on the far wall as steam began to cloud the chamber.

  Not all the blood in the water belonged to Akkama, and Rosma saw more than one shark’s carcass before it was all over. Akkama was dragged beneath the churning waters, her screams silenced. Red light flashed and flashed again down below, revealing the outlines of five, six, seven sharks, all larger than Akkama, all crowded together in a feeding frenzy.

  The red lights flickered, died. Darkness only in the depths, bloody waters stirred by the movements of the sharks below. Rosma watched for several minutes. Some sharks rose to the surface, both living and dead, but no Akkama.

  “There is your justice,” she said to the waters.

  She climbed back to the surface. She saw Akkama’s slider, hovering unmanned and useless over the inland scrub, and rummaged through its contents, finding nothing of interest.

  Anthea would want to know about this, Rosma decided. Akkama was dead. No point in hiding it. Anthea would want to talk to her, and she was probably in Prax. No point in delaying it.

  She turned back to her own vehicle and departed for the dry coral forests.