Oblivion (Nevermore #3)

Oblivion (Nevermore #3) Page 100

Just as Isobel had been able to do things in the dreamworld without knowing how—like keeping up with Pinfeathers’s mad masquerade waltz and Reynolds’s frenzied sword-fighting lesson during their skirmish near the cliffs—so too, it seemed, was the real Varen able to keep pace with his counterpart.

It wasn’t long, however, before one landed another strike.

Spear Varen feinted once, then twice, before penetrating his foe’s defenses. With an upward flick of his weapon, he caught Sword Varen across the chest. The spear’s spiked tip sent an arc of crimson over the floor, and the appearance of fresh blood made Isobel feel even more helpless; that both Varens bled told her that the Noc had taken care to construct a veneer that was internal as well as external.

“Isobel, nothing’s happening,” she heard Gwen say. And it wasn’t. Because Isobel wasn’t focusing. How could she?

Snap, clack, crack—clang!

Isobel gasped as the dagger fell from Sword Varen’s hand. Armed now with only a single blade, he staggered away from his assailant, trailing blood.

Spear Varen flipped his weapon into a better grip and, advancing on his target again, unleashed a string of onslaughts that forced Sword Varen all the way to the gates. There they crashed together, Spear Varen squeezing Sword Varen into the iron bars.

Isobel heard one of them hiss something to the other, though she couldn’t decipher what was said or which had spoken.

Then, with an angry growl, Sword Varen sent Spear Varen tumbling backward. Now, as the doubles re-entered the center of the arena, it was Spear Varen who retreated, struggling to deflect the ceaseless string of swipes and slashes.

A whip-fast swing of the sword knocked the spear aside. Moving in, Sword Varen grasped its shaft, holding it and its wielder steady with one hand. Then he coiled his blade-bearing arm, preparing to send it down on his opponent’s exposed neck in a killing blow.

“Stop!” Isobel screeched, and her cry caused Sword Varen to hesitate. Long enough for Spear Varen to reclaim his weapon and break away.

“I thought you said we had to concentrate!” Gwen snapped.

Tensing, Isobel forced herself to shut her eyes.

The clanging of weapons, scuffle of steps, and snapping of coats resumed, the mixture of sounds screaming louder and louder in her ears.

Isobel tried to push the echoing clamor aside, to concentrate on the pressure of Gwen’s shoulder against hers. She allowed the sensation to transport her back in time, to that moment at the burial site when she’d found the hidden reserves of her own strength. Again she pictured the bars dissolving.

“It’s working,” Isobel said when, to her surprise, she felt the iron loosen. “Don’t stop.”

She squeezed her fists and felt the brittle metal give. Opening her eyes, Isobel pushed forward and, wasting no time, burst through the gate as it crumpled apart like dry, rotted cloth.

Isobel hurried past the angels, who turned their focuses on her, bleeding scars opening on their cheeks.

She dashed into the arena, the soles of her shoes clapping against the marble just as, tripped by the end of the spear, Sword Varen went sprawling.

His blade leaped from his grip as he fell, and with a shriek, it glided to a stop at Isobel’s feet.

She bent to retrieve the sword, clutching its heavy hilt.

When she looked up, however, she saw Spear Varen raise his weapon high and aim the tip for the heart of his rival.

“Do you really win if you know she won’t make it out of here alive?” the felled Varen asked between heavy breaths, his chest bloody and heaving.

Spear Varen held off, his own breaths coming fast, his white-knuckled hands quivering.

“Go ahead,” said the floored double. “End it. You should know better than anybody that I’m telling the truth when I say I want you to.”

At these words, Isobel released the sword, realizing it would do her no good.

No weapon would. And no words would either.

She’d been wrong to tell Gwen she held the power to stop this. To stop them.

She couldn’t.

Because this was not her fight. Like the angels, she was on the outside. A spectator left with no choice but to watch.

Isobel rose slowly to stand, leaving the sword where it lay.

“Strike,” said the Varen on the floor.

“First, tell me why you say she’ll die,” snapped the standing Varen.

“I think at this point, you and I both know that it’s going to be either her or us,” Sword Varen responded, never once breaking gazes with his double. “You only hesitate now because you know it’s true. How else can it end? I think we both understand that whichever one of us—you or I, I mean—gets to walk away from this little scrap will also determine who survives in the end. Her or us. So why not seal the deal now? After all, isn’t control all you’ve ever really wanted?”