Aelin looked across the pit, to the crowd gathered, and pointed. “Him.”
The Valg commander was already grinning at her.
24
Chaol didn’t know what the hell to think as Aelin leaped into the pit, landing on her haunches. But the crowd had seen whom she’d pointed to and was already in a frenzy, shoving to the front, passing gold as last-minute bets were made.
He had to plant his heels to keep from being knocked over the open lip of the pit. No ropes or railings here. If you fell in, you were fair game. A small part of him was glad Nesryn was on watch in the back. And a smaller part of him was glad for a night without more fruitless hunting for the new Valg nests. Even if it meant dealing with Aelin for a few hours. Even if Arobynn Hamel had given him this little gift. A gift that, he hated to admit, he sorely needed and did appreciate. But that was no doubt how Arobynn operated.
Chaol wondered what the price would be. Or whether his fear of a potential price was payment enough for the King of the Assassins.
Dressed head to toe in black, Aelin was a living shadow, pacing like a jungle cat on her side of the pit as the Valg commander jumped in. He could have sworn the ground shuddered.
They were both insane—Aelin and her master. Arobynn had said to choose any one of the Valg. She’d picked their leader.
They’d barely spoken since their fight after Aedion’s rescue. Frankly, she didn’t deserve a word out of him, but when she’d hunted him down an hour ago, interrupting a meeting that was so secret that they’d disclosed the location to the rebel leaders only an hour before … Maybe he was a fool, but he couldn’t in good conscience say no. If only because Aedion would have slaughtered him for it.
But since the Valg were here … Yes, this night had been useful after all.
The pit-lord began shouting the rules. Simply: there were none, save for no blades. Just hands and feet and wits.
Gods above.
Aelin stilled her pacing, and Chaol had to elbow an overeager man in the stomach to keep from being shoved into the pit.
The Queen of Terrasen was in a fighting pit in the slums of Rifthold. No one here, he’d wager, would believe it. He was hardly able to believe it himself.
The pit-lord roared for the match to begin, and then—
They moved.
The commander lunged with a punch so swift most men would have had their heads spun around. But Aelin dodged and caught his arm in one hand, locking it into a hold he knew was bone-snapping. As the commander’s face twisted with pain, she drove her knee up into the side of his head.
It was so fast, so brutal, even the crowd didn’t know what the hell had happened until the commander was staggering back, and Aelin was dancing on her toes.
The commander laughed, straightening. It was the only break Aelin gave him before she went on the offensive.
She moved like a midnight storm. Whatever training she’d had in Wendlyn, whatever that prince had taught her … Gods help them all.
Punch after punch, block, lunge, duck, spin … The crowd was a writhing thing, foaming at the mouth at the swiftness, the skill.
Chaol had seen her kill. It had been a while since he’d seen her fight for the enjoyment of it.
And she was enjoying the hell out of this.
An opponent worthy of her, he supposed as she locked her legs around the commander’s head and rolled, flipping him.
Sand sprayed around them. She wound up on top, driving her fist down into the man’s cold, handsome face—
Only to be hurled off with a twist so swift that Chaol could hardly follow the movement. Aelin hit the bloodied sand and uncoiled to her feet just as the commander attacked once more.
Then they were again a blur of limbs and blows and darkness.
Across the pit, Arobynn was wide-eyed, grinning, a starving man before a feast. Lysandra clung to his side, her knuckles white as she gripped his arm. Men were whispering in Arobynn’s ear, their eyes locked on the pit, as hungry as Arobynn. Either the owners of the Pits or prospective clients, bargaining for the use of the woman fighting with such wild wrath and wicked delight.
Aelin landed a kick to the commander’s stomach that sent him slamming into the rock wall. He slumped, gasping for air. The crowd cheered, and Aelin flung out her arms, turning in a slow circle, Death triumphant.
The crowd’s answering roar made Chaol wonder if the ceiling would come crashing down.