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70. Race to the Arena
🕑 Added 2021-06-24 20:01:00 +0000 UTCA throbbing headache greeted Twain. Straw prickled against his cheek and side. He pressed a hand to his forehead and winced. Ow, shit. What happened?
He peeled his eyes open and immediately slammed them shut again. Feebly, he lifted a hand to block the vicious dawn sunlight that poured through the stable’s high windows. “Shit.”
From the stall next door, a horse snorted at him.
Beside him, something warm and soft stirred. He hesitated. I just woke up hungover next to a mystery person… oh, shit, did something happen? Furrowing his brows, he frowned and thought back. Dancing onstage… did that really happen? Damn, was I really sober for that? Uh, and then… something about spiders, and we went back in and drank with the girls… Cel managed to herd the princesses out, and…
Something sloshed in his pocket. Frowning, Twain groped around. Something hard and cool met his fingertips. Glass? A vial? Did I bring poison…?
His eyes flew wide. He jolted. The blight!
A soft grunt emerged from behind him. Someone faintly patted him and grumbled.
Twain braced himself. I really don’t remember. I have to look eventually. He peered over his shoulder.
A crumpled pillowcase gently moved in and out. Fell shifted and curled up a little tighter in the straw.
Twain stiffened. His eyes went wide. What happened last night?
“Finally awake?” a stableboy asked, peeking over the stable doors.
Startled, Twain retracted, gripping at the straw as if it was bedsheets.
The boy thrust out his hand and rehearsed, almost mechanically, “It’s five copper a night for the stables. Threw you and the other one in there when they kicked you out the bar. Oughta be grateful, they round up the ones who sleep outside and throw ‘em in the clink.”
Oh. Right. That makes sense. Twain sat up, rifled in his pockets and pulled out a silver. “Keep the change.”
“What change?” the stableboy muttered, pocketing the silver.
Twain frowned at him.
The stableboy scurried off, clutching the silver in his pocket. “Mindin’ me own business, never mind little old me.”
“C’mon, Fell, wake up.” He shook the prone form beside him hard.
“Huh? Er, wuzzat?” Fell mumbled.
Twain shook him harder. “C’mon, we’ve gotta get back to the Arena. We’ve got fights tonight.”
Fell let out an incomprehensible groan.
“Eh? Fight?” Spar asked from next door. His head and the head of the horse next door popped over the stable wall simultaneously.
Twain’s eyes widened.
Spar glanced at him, frowned, glanced at the horse beside him and frowned again. “Oh, come on. Can’t a man sleep over at an old friend’s place without getting suspected?”
“I don’t know. Only one of us is a professed horse-fucker.”
“And the other one’s sleeping with our good friend Fell, I mean, what am I supposed to assume?”
“’d…wha’?” Fell muttered, sitting up at last.
Twain rolled his eyes at Spar. Batting the straw off his legs, he sighed. “C’mon, let’s get back to the Arena.”
“Oh, yeah, you guys have a fight this morning, don’t you?” Spar asked.
Twain froze. “Morning? I thought it was tonight.”
“Early matches in the loser’s bracket, didn’t you check the schedule? Yours starts at tenth bell.”
At that moment, the bells began to chime. One. Two. Three.
Twain glanced at the other two. “Uh, how many bells…”
“Should be ten just now,” the stableboy commented, eyeing Spar. He started to thrust his hand out.
“We’ve got to go!” Twain grabbed Fell by the arm and sprinted out of the stable.
Fell stumbled after him, still bleary. “Wha’s goin’ on…”
“No time!”
Spar jogged up beside them. A blinding flash of light burst out, and a pure white horse galloped beside them. “Hop on!”
Twain slung himself up with practiced ease. Fell flailed beside him, jumping helplessly at the horse, but his arms kept flopping off. Twain bent down and hauled Fell up in front of him.
“Argh, it really wants to come out…” Spar grumbled.
“You better be talking about your horn,” Twain snapped.
“What else would I be talking about? You pervert.”
“Well, hold it in! We can’t have the town talking about how some idiots stole His Majesty’s unicorn!”
Fell startled. He stared at Twain over his shoulder, then back at Spar.
“Don’t worry about it, Fell. We’re going to get there on time, and that’s what matters.”
Another bell. Another. Is that five, or seven? Twain bit his lip. He kicked Spar’s flank. “Faster, faster!”
“Use your damn words, I’ve got ears,” Spar complained. He stretched out his legs and sped up, sprinting over the cobbles.
Twain’s hangover pounded between his temples. He pressed a palm into his eye and groaned. “Oh, this is going to suck.”
“I’ve never been so glad to be disqualified,” Spar snickered.
Reaching into his pocket, Twain drew out the vial. Black fluid swished inside. He undid the cork, and a wisp of black smoke escaped into the late morning air.
Fell gasped. “Is that...?”
