Kate Daniels 03 - Magic Strikes

of a shark.
    The smell of blood and hot sand invaded my nostrils. I squinted against the bright glow of huge feylanterns and took a step to the Pit . . . and almost bumped into a guard barring my way.
    “No further. If you exit the gate, your fighter forfeits the match.”
    It wasn’t my fight.
    I leaned against the golden arch. Jim halted next to me. It was up to Saiman now.
    The Reaper tossed one of his axes in the air. It spun, the bluish blade shining as it captured the torch light, and he caught it with deft quickness. The crowd loved it.
    A gong tolled through the chamber. As its deep ring died, Saiman glanced back at us.
    “Come.” The Reaper’s voice was a raspy growl, touched with that same accent I couldn’t quite place. He motioned with his axe. “Come! I cut you down to size.”
    Saiman hesitated.
    “Come!”
    Saiman turned halfway, facing me. His eyes brimmed with fear. We should’ve never put him into the damn Pit. He wasn’t a fighter. No matter how big he was, unless he had courage enough to kill for his survival, he would be simply cut down.
    “Move,” I whispered. That first step was the hardest. Once he broke the dread chaining him and struck the first blow, he would be fine. But he had to move.
    The Reaper raised his arms wide as if asking the audience for an explanation. Boos and jeers erupted, at first isolated, then gaining strength, until they swelled into a wall of sound.
    The Reaper held up his axe. The noise died down. “I cut you now,” he announced.
    He advanced, flexing, hefting his axes. Saiman took a step back. The Reaper smirked and kept coming. An ugly grimace skewed his face. He raised the axes and charged.
    Saiman dodged, but the edge of the left axe caught his thigh. Blood drenched the frost-white skin. Shock slapped Saiman’s monstrous face. The axe fighter paused to soak in the applause.
    Saiman stared at the blood. His lips trembled. His eyebrows came together. A wild light danced in his deep eyes.
    Pain, I realized. Pain was his trigger. Saiman was afraid of pain, and once it lashed him, he would do anything to keep it from hurting him again.
    With a terrible bellow, Saiman swung his club. The Reaper leapt aside and the club smashed the ground, sending a spray of sand into the air. Without a pause, Saiman swiped the club up and charged. The Reaper jumped back. The club’s steel spikes fanned his face. The Reaper ducked left, right, but Saiman whipped the club at him as if it weighed nothing. The axe fighter ran.
    All thought vanished from Saiman’s glassy eyes. He roared and chased the Reaper back and forth through the Pit, his face terrible to behold, his mind lost to fury. I wasn’t sure he knew where he was or what he was doing here, but he knew he had to kill the fleeing Reaper.
    “Ice him,” Jim murmured. “ Ice him.”
    Our stares met and he shook his head. Like the Norse warriors of old odes, Saiman was lost to his berserker rage, too far gone to remember he had magic.
    The Reaper stopped. As the club whistled past his chest, a hair short of ripping him open, he pivoted and struck at the club’s handle with his right axe, trying to knock Saiman off balance. It was a good move. Saiman’s momentum, aided by the Reaper’s strike, would drive the club forward, leaving the Reaper free to cleave at Saiman’s right arm and side.
    The axe connected to the club. Ice swallowed the blue axe blade, shot up the handle to the Reaper’s arm, and caught his fist. The Reaper screamed. Desperate, he chopped at Saiman’s elbow, but the giant let go of the club, hurtling it and the Reaper into the wire fence. The Reaper’s back hit the wire right in front of me. He barely had a chance to bounce off. Saiman loomed above him, his face deranged, locked his hands into one enormous fist, and brought them down onto the Reaper’s skull like a hammer.
    The Reaper dodged at the last moment and the blow landed on his right shoulder. Bones crunched. The Reaper howled. Saiman reached for the Reaper’s shoulders. His enormous hands gripped his opponent’s flesh, and Saiman jerked him off his feet as if he were a child, and smashed his head into the Reaper’s face. Blood flew, staining Saiman’s features. He threw the Reaper against the fence and pummeled him with his fists, breaking into a rabid frenzy of blows.
    The fence shuddered and quaked. With each crushing punch, wire cut into the Reaper’s overmuscled back, leaving bloody, diamond-shaped gouges. His head