Fatefall - 7

Chapter 7 - Nakoa

The worst part was, after a while, the Fates started fighting back.  

Bringing Moose with her to the city had seemed like a good idea at first, but after the fourth eviction, Nakoa was beginning to think she’d made a mistake. 

“We don’t want fleas!” spat the innkeeper of The Golden Sunset as he tossed Nakoa’s bags to the road. “Take your mangy mutt and get out of my sight!” 

“Your bedbugs and my fleas could be good friends,” Nakoa retorted, gathering her belongings and turning her back to the innkeeper. She would rather die than let him see her cry. 

Moose butted his head into her side, oblivious to the fact that he was the reason she couldn’t find a place to stay. It didn’t help that the several nights of sleeping on the streets had taken their toll and his coat was a mess of grimy tangles. 

“Shouldn’t you be headed to the Tournament?” 

The voice startled her to her feet and Nakoa wheeled around, expecting another one of those filthy beggars who constantly tried to pick her pockets. 

Instead she found a familiar face, a smirk splayed across his face. 

“Ansel?”

“My favorite priestess!” he laughed. 

“I thought you weren’t coming because your father is sick,” Nakoa said. Wait, was his dad dead? Maybe she shouldn’t have brought that up-

“My parents decided they’d rather have me here supporting you than sitting around watching my dad sleep,” Ansel explained with a shrug. “And I love the city, so…” 

“When did you get here?” Nakoa asked. Because I really could have used your help finding a place to sleep that wasn’t some alleyway. 

“Yesterday evening,” Ansel answered. “I heard a few people complaining about some tribal freak wandering around town with her flesh-eating beast, so I assumed you’d made it here okay.”

Tribal freak? Nakoa winced at the insult. 

“And what? You just followed the rumors until you found me?”

“Good thing I did,” Ansel said, gaze roaming over Nakoa’s dirt-covered form. “You’re going to miss the Qualifiers if you don’t get your butt moving.” He narrowed his eyes. “Please tell me that you have a costume.”

Nakoa stared at him. A costume? Why in the Fates did she need a costume to fight?

“I’ll take that as a no,” Ansel noted, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fates, Nakoa. Do you even know what you signed yourself up for?”

“A Tournament,” she stated, feeling like a child once again. “You didn’t tell me I needed a costume.” 

“I assumed you knew the basic gist of the competition, otherwise I wouldn’t have let you come!”

Nakoa suddenly became aware that they were still standing in front of The Golden Sunset. The few people navigating the narrow, cobblestone street were beginning to stare. 

“You really think you could have stopped me?” she countered, voice low. 

Ansel heaved a sigh, running a hand through his hair. “Y’know what, I deserve a thank you for picking up a costume for you just as a back-up plan.” 

You avoided the question, Nakoa wanted to point out. Could Ansel have stopped her? She hated that the answer was probably yes. 

She pushed the thought away. “Thanks, then.”

“Hmm, that wasn’t very sincere, now was it?” Ansel said with a shake of his head. “I’ll let it slide this time, but only if we get moving. If I wasted my money on a costume that you won’t get to wear because you missed your slotted fight, then I’m not gonna be thrilled with you.” 

“The only reason we’re still standing here is because someone insisted on berating me in public,” Nakoa said, turning away from him and continuing on her way with Moose at her side. “I would’ve been fine without your help.” 

“Oh yeah?” She could sense the amusement in his voice. “Hey, Nakoa? The arena is in the other direction.”

Nakoa made a rude gesture, and Ansel only laughed harder. 

“What is this costume supposed to be again?” Nakoa asked, unable to mask the disgust in her voice as she spun in a slow circle, inspecting her new outfit. 

“It’s customary for competitors to dress up like their Fates,” Ansel answered. He looked like he was stifling laughter and Nakoa was half tempted to slap him. “You’re supposed to look like Basar.”

“Even Moose hates it,” Nakoa complained, gesturing towards her dog, whose eyes were covered with his paws. 

“Look, at least you have a costume now,” Ansel pointed out, crossing his arms. 

That shut Nakoa up. 

Truth be told, her costume wasn’t terrible. Okay, it was pretty close. Her white robes were lined with turquoise designs and swirls, but the fabric barely grazed Nakoa’s knees. She was pretty sure they were supposed to fall to her ankles. Basar’s trademark blindfold had been replaced with a plain, teal mask that covered the top half of her face. 

“If you’re just going to snicker at me, then you can watch from the stands like everyone else,” Nakoa grumbled, shooting Ansel a glare. 

“Everyone gets a friend to help them prepare,” Ansel recited. “So thanks but no thanks, I’m keeping the first class seats.” 

“I’m demoting you from friend status.” 

“Then who will take my place? Moose?” 

“He’s nice to me, at least,” Nakoa said, smiling when Moose wagged his tail. 

“He can’t tell the time,” Ansel said pointedly. “Speaking of which, it’s my duty as your not-friend to remind you that you’re up for the next fight.” 

Nakoa blinked, glancing up at the clock on the wall and cursing under her breath. 

She scrambled away from the mirror, hurrying to lace up her boots. “You should have warned me earlier, Ansel. Now I’m going to be late and they’re going to kick me out of the competition--” 

Ansel’s hands found Nakoa’s shoulders and his touch froze her in place. “Relax, Nakoa. You’ve got this. It’s a simple sword fight. You get in the circle, and you don’t let your opponent touch you. You’ll be fine. It’s just like what we practiced back home, except this time you have an audience.”

Nakoa sucked in a breath, nodding vigorously. This is what you wanted, she reminded herself. This was the reason she’d left. This wasn’t some traditional parade or a performance of lies - these people were here to see a fight. And Nakoa would give it to them. 

“Next fight: Basar two and Basar thirty-three,” called the announcer. 

“Basar two,” Nakoa repeated. “That’s me.” She finally dared to meet Ansel’s eyes and forced her best smile. “Wish me luck.” 

Ansel just shook his head. “You don’t need luck to wow them, Nakoa. Now go out there and show them what priestesses are made of.” 

Nakoa nodded once, steeling herself before stepping out of the ring and into the arena itself. The dirt beneath her feet reminded her of her village and her muscles relaxed. You were born for this. 

The crowd roared in anticipation and Nakoa waved at them, fueling their cheers. 

Maybe they were laughing at her cheesy costume, but Nakoa thought otherwise. She adopted an air of confidence as she took a sword from one of the assistants at the edge of the circle painted in the dirt. It felt heavy and unwieldy in her hands and Nakoa felt the first bite of nervousness. She suddenly missed the weight of her knife, which had been forced to relinquish to Ansel or face disqualification. 

When she caught sight of her opponent, Nakoa almost fainted. 

The woman shouldn’t have been as intimidating as she was. She looked to be in her twenties, maybe a little older than Ansel. With lanky limbs and a costume that seemed to hang off of her like rags drying in the sun, she didn’t exactly scream deadly. 

But when she moved, she was like the desert cats of Aecheral. She twirled her sword with ease and grace and speed so unfathomable that Nakoa was sure that there was some kind of magic involved. 

Her Grace, Nakoa realized. This woman had the Grace of Time too, and she was obviously more skilled at wielding it. Nakoa’s hope drained away leaving her tongue as dry as the fields during drought season. Maybe she had the audience on her side, but the support of the crowd only went so far. 

“Fighters take your marks!” 

Nakoa stepped into the circle, clutching the hilt of her sword with both hands. Surely they’d dulled the blades--

A gunshot sent Nakoa’s heart stumbling and she immediately took a hit to the gut. Her stomach screamed in pain and she barely resisted the urge to cry as she pressed a hand to the wound. It came away wet with blood. 

“Get on your feet, coward,” the other woman yelled. 

Nakoa staggered to her feet, fighting back a whimper. She swung wildly, earning a laugh for her effort. 

“Oh, this is going to be too fun,” the woman chortled. 

Nakoa gave her a sharp glare and lunged again. She’d been dealing with bullies her whole life - she didn’t need her vision to end this woman. 

Her Grace surfaced beneath her skin and Nakoa welcomed its presence. She was about to call on it when the woman lashed out again, faster than a whip. Something burned across Nakoa’s shoulder and she cried out. 

Nakoa’s Grace launched forward and a ripple flew from her fingertips, slowing down the time of the rest of the world. Her body quivered with the effort that it took to keep the magic alive, but she was too far in to give up now. She stepped forward, unable to watch her opponent’s face as she slid her sword against the woman’s forearm once, twice--

Her hold on time collapsed and so did she. Nakoa’s back hit the dirt and in the time it took for her to give a gasp of surprise, her opponent was on top of her. 

The sword’s tip glinted in the sunlight and Nakoa didn’t have time to scream as it descended towards her chest. Her Grace flashed once and Nakoa briefly felt the sword pierce her skin, could feel it slide through her ribs and towards her heart.

As suddenly as it had come, the pain fled and Nakoa realized her opponent was lying on the ground a few feet away, panting desperately for air. Nakoa scrambled for her sword, determined to protect herself but someone caught her wrists and hauled her to her feet. She doubled over in pain until she felt a warm blanket drape across her shoulders. 

“Basar thirty-three,” one of the assistants said, anger evident in their voice. “Killing your opponent is not allowed under any circumstances.”

Nakoa sucked in a breath. Fates, was that what had happened? She pressed one hand to her chest, where she’d felt the sword sink into her flesh. Her skin was unblemished, but she recalled the flare of her Grace just as she’d nearly died. Could Basar really be watching out for her?

“I didn’t try to kill her!” the woman protested as soldiers dressed in gold flanked her sides. “And I drew blood three times! I won!”

“You are hereby disqualified from the Tournament of Fates after an attempted murder,” the assistant continued, as though they hadn’t heard her arguments. “Congratulations, Basar two. Please attend our banquet later, where you will choose your team members for the Tournament. Until then, feel free to visit one of our healers on the way out.”

Nakoa nodded her thanks, not trusting herself to speak. 

She hobbled back to the ring, ignoring the audience altogether though she could sense their disappointment. They wanted to see the winner of the match, to know how it felt to literally see one’s life flash before their eyes. 

Ansel met her at the edge of the ring, his gaze filled with worry as she pulled him into a hug. 

“Fates, I thought you were going to die,” he whispered, voice almost inaudible. 

“Then why didn’t you stop her?” Nakoa asked, wiping futilely at the tears streaming down her face. 

“Would you have really wanted me to?” Ansel pointed out. “You showed the audience that you’re meant to be here, Nakoa. They want more of you.”

“They didn’t seem to mind when that woman tried to stab me.”

Ansel shook his head, rubbing Nakoa’s back. “You didn’t see their reactions, but I did. I thought a few of them were actually going to jump into the pit with you. I’m sure that there will be complaints later.”

That didn’t exactly reassure her, but Nakoa let it slide. 

She let Ansel hold her a little while longer, allowing her heart to fall back to normal speed. When she finally stepped away, she realized she’d bled all over Ansel’s shirt. Guilt swept down like a fist to her already burning gut. 

Ansel glanced down sheepishly. “I know what you’re thinking, but it’s fine. I have to change before the banquet tonight anyway. That is, if you’ll allow me to join you for the feast.”

Nakoa’s spirits jumped. “There will be food?”

Ansel grinned. “Of course. There’s always food when the royals are involved. Moose might have to stay at home, though. We can drop him at my place.”

He had a place in the city? Instead, she asked, “Do I need a new, equally cheesy outfit for the banquet?”

“Nope. You keep the same one so that the other competitors will recognize you tonight. Trust me when I say that’s a good thing --- they’ll all want you for their team.”

Nakoa grimaced. “Can we at least wash the stupid thing?”

“For sure,” Ansel said, wrinkling his nose. “You smell worse than Moose.”

Nakoa punched him in the arm, stifling a laugh. Ansel’s ability to keep her mind off of the problems at hand was amazing, truly. She envied his ability to laugh through his troubles. 

“Looks like someone’s a bit grumpy,” he said, shaking his head. “C’mon, sunshine, let’s get you to a healer before you get blood anywhere else.” 

Nakoa gratefully allowed Ansel to usher her along, though her mind kept flashing back to the moment when the sword had buried itself in her chest. Somehow, her Grace of Time had managed to throw her opponent several yards away. She racked her brain for a plausible explanation, but logic evaded her. 

Because the only explanation she could come up with was that she had reversed time.

Author's Note

Once again, fight scenes are one my weaknesses so I'm trying to keep them relatively short in hopes to spare you from the play by play. Let me know if you have any tips on how to improve.