But Perg is focused. I’m too far away to read his expression, but his determination permeates the hot air. His swift footwork helps him dodge the Deccor’s blows, but he’s yet to return a single one. The battle goes like this for some time, longer, I think, than the other bouts. Perg keeps the Deccor turning and eventually starts blocking the blows instead of evading them.
Because he’s moving in closer, inch by inch. And I don’t think the Deccor realizes it.
Perg shifts suddenly to the right, and his axe strikes the Deccor’s arm. I gasp, my hands flying to my mouth. The larger trollis drops his sword and stumbles back to cradle the injury. I can’t tell how bad it is, but I can imagine. If the trollis is lucky, that blade would have stopped at the bone.
The Deccor roars and charges, but his feet shamble from all the spinning. Perg ducks in and strikes again as he passes, to the side, I think; the Deccor’s enormous body blocks my view. The larger trollis falls prone, and Perg leaps onto his back, axe head pressed to the Deccor’s neck.
Yet the Deccor does not surrender. He rolls, sending Perg sprawling, but he’s not fast enough to retrieve a weapon. I look away when Perg brings the axe down with both hands, and a gasp echoes through the crowd.
Clenching my jaw, I peer back. I believe the Deccor still lives, but he’s unable to stand. Silence holds its breath. Medics come out to the arena.
A few boos burst from the audience. Behind me, many of the Plebs cheer—maybe they bet on Perg after all. The officiator comes out to declare Perg the winner, and the crowd erupts with a mix of pleasure and disdain.
I can see Perg’s grin from my cramped spot. He’s done it—he’s a Deccor, the third rank in the caste system. Cry as the crowd may, he’s rightfully earned it.
I applaud. But the sound of the crowd cuts out sharply. Perg hasn’t left the bridge. Someone shouts, but I can’t hear what.
Hoping to go unnoticed, I worm my way closer to the action, slipping between arches, then through clusters of trollis sitting and standing. Most are too intent on the arena to notice me. Others, I hope, will merely think I’m delivering a message to one of my betters.
“—and allow such monstrosity?” a bold, familiar voice bellows. I step around a trollis woman, and my stomach sinks as I recognize Grodd standing before the crowd, his arms raised. “He should not even be allowed the tournament! He is an abomination!”
About half of the crowd reacts in low, angry voices. Angry at Grodd or at Perg, I’m not sure, but my skin tingles as I watch. Nothing good can come of this.
Grodd marches forward and disappears into the crowd, and for a moment I think the complaints will end, but he returns swiftly, dragging a smaller trollis woman with him. Judging by her dress, she’s a Pleb.
He hands the shaking woman a sword and steps back, his arms spread wide.
Someone from the highest seats, near what I assume is the council, shouts, “A tournament cannot be entered unwillingly.”
“Oh, she’s willing,” Grodd bellows back. He looks at the Pleb. I’m not so far as to miss the malicious gleam in his eye.
Will he kill the woman out of anger? Does she mean something to Perg? Yet Perg looks as confused as I feel. What—
The woman lunges for Grodd, and Grodd allows her to strike him across the face with the flat of her sword. He falls dramatically to the ground.
The crowd gasps. I don’t breathe. I don’t understand.
Grodd, still supine, motions to someone, and the officiator hesitantly comes out to announce the Pleb the winner.
Another gasp sounds around me. Cold seizes my fingers. I press them into my neck.
Grodd, a Montra, just willingly gave his title to a Pleb. He exchanged one of the highest ranks for the lowest.
Why?
“Oh stars,” I whisper.
Taking the sword from the Pleb—the new Montra, who seems utterly stunned—Grodd turns for Perg.
No. He’s going to fight Perg. Strip him of his new Deccor status and make him a Pleb. And while Grodd isn’t nearly the size of Perg’s first opponent, he waits like a viper, cruel and tense. And Perg is tired.
I rush to the nearest trollis, a gray woman, and say, “But Perg has to agree!”
She looks at me, surprised—I imagine she’s Intra and I’m overstepping my bounds—but shock must sway her to speak with me. “No, he’s still standing on the battlefield. He can still be confronted if he remains. It’s a stance of challenge.”
Stance of challenge. Azmar explained that to me. Strength oozes from my legs. “But Grodd came too quickly. Perg wasn’t challenging anyone! He was confused . . .”