All That Lives Must Die - Eric Nylund [36]
Fiona moved toward him, but Dante stepped in front of her. “No interference,” he said. “It has to play out.”
“Is he—?” Eliot asked, unable to finish his thought.
They watched as the boy who’d fallen slowly got up, his arm hanging at an odd, clearly broken, angle.
“Apparently not,” Dante replied.
“You may use any means to get to your goal,” Dante continued. “And you can use any means to prevent your opponents from getting to their goal—short of bringing weapons onto the field.”
Fiona thought it a razor-fine distinction between getting kicked off a thirty-foot-high platform and not using weapons. Both were potentially lethal.
Meanwhile, the boy who’d knocked his opponent off swung across a wide chasm, landed, traversed across monkey bars, and then grabbed the red flag.
“Red wins,” Dante announced.
“This will be more complicated,” Jezebel remarked, “with two eight-person teams. Sixteen participants. The probability for combat will be much greater.”
There was a glint in the Infernal’s eyes, and Fiona didn’t like that one bit.
Amanda Lane, on the other hand, looked so pale now, Fiona thought she might faint.
“Some students,” Dante said without looking at any of them in particular, “leave after they see this . . . or after their first match. It is not for the weak of heart.”
Fiona wondered how she would do. Lose or win? Grab a flag in glory—or fall into the dirt . . . maybe breaking her neck? She imagined herself climbing and jumping and swinging through the air high off the ground. It made her blood race.
But there was more to this. Maybe Fiona wasn’t the smartest here, or the prettiest, nor did she have a clue about the social mechanics . . . but this she understood. She could win here and prove to everyone that she belonged at Paxington.
“I can handle this,” she said.
“I bet you can,” replied Jeremy, who had moved next to her.
The boys climbed down and helped their wounded classmate get up and off the field—even the boy who had knocked him off. There didn’t seem to be any hard feelings.
Fiona wondered how much forgiveness there would’ve been had the boy snapped his spine.
“Well,” Dante said. “Any questions?”
“When is our first match?” Sarah asked.
“That’s up to your gym teacher, Mr. Ma. He’ll probably run you through practice drills first.”
Fiona was relieved. She’d need time to thoroughly understand all this and strategize.
Dante led them back to the tunnel and outside.
They took another path through the Grove Primeval, through a particularly dense and dark section of ancient black oaks, and came out on the far side of the quad.
A fountain splashed nearby, and Fiona welcomed the cooling effect on the warm day. In the center of the water sat a bronze bearded man holding a trident; leaping fish surrounded him—all frozen forever in gleaming metal.
Dante pointed to a row of stately brownstones. “Those are the dormitories for those living on campus.” He indicated a larger columned building of gray granite in the distance. “The health center. And over these steps on the hill is Plato’s Court, where you’ll have most of your freshman classes. ”
Robert interrupted. “Hey—what’s this?” He pointed back at the fountain.
Two boys stood on opposite sides of the fountain, facing each other across the water. Their Paxington jackets were off, and each held rapiers.
“A freshman duel,” Dante remarked. “I supposed I should’ve covered this. Let’s watch.”
The tips of their rapiers glistened. One boy was as big as a football player, the other smaller than Eliot . . . even more so because he crouched low.
“Duels are permitted anytime on campus,” Dante explained. “But only by mutual consent, of course.”
They circled closer toward each other.
The bigger boy rushed his opponent, trying to skewer him through the midsection.
The smaller boy sidestepped and parried—but still stumbled back from the force, and almost fell into the fountain.
“Don’t worry,” Dante told her, “it’s only to first blood.”
“But I hear there are always accidents,” Sarah added.
Fiona thought it the most barbaric thing in the