Page 37 of The Realm That Falls to Her

It looks like we’re still in good time when we return to the arena. The players are only just taking their positions on either side of the circle. Vaccia waves us over and I look around for the other members of our team that I know—Jasand and Wistal. They’re a little way away from us, at the edge of the circle, crouching down. I squint, thinking their positions look odd.

Then they start to change. Their arms and faces elongate, their legs lengthen, and I squeeze my eyes shut and open them again, trying to make sense of it. They’re getting bigger, much bigger, as Jasand’s brown skin sprouts long, shaggy fur, while Wistal’s turns black, with a fine down of shiny hair. He keeps his horns, still protruding proudly from his head, only now he has a snout and cow-like eyes. He looks like a bull, except taller and more muscled than any cattle I’ve ever seen. Meanwhile, Jasand shakes out his fur and stretches, now a lean, yellow-eyed wolf with the same kind of sharp teeth and claws as his human form.

I jerk my head round to look at Pyromey for explanation, only to see a couple of players on the other team has also taken animal forms. They bear vague resemblances to creatures from back home—a mountain lion and a stag, but like the others they’re much larger, stranger variations.

“How do they do that?” I ask Pyromey. I’ve seen magic achieve amazing things, but so far nothing like this.

She glances at the players with disinterest. “It’s a power carried by some of the king’s bloodline. Rare enough. Not all of us have it.” She smirks at Vaccia. “I have a theory that the more of an animal you are on the inside, the more likely you’ll be able to transform.”

Vaccia nods and laughs like she’s heard this joke before. “That certainly applies to those two.”

She nods at Wistal and Jasand as they trot over and I stare up, awed, as they pass me, the musk of hot animal breath and fur putting me back in the ursinian paddock.

“I thought we had to play this game on the ursinian’s backs?” I say.

Pyromey shakes her head. “Most of us do. But there’s no rule that says you can’t play transformed.”

Of course there isn’t. It sounds like this game barely has any rules.

“Not to ask stupid questions, but won’t they need their hands to er…move the ball?”

“If transformed they’re allowed to use any body part to direct it. But the transformed are mostly there to be our defense—to get other players out of the way for those of us with the ball.”

I stare across the plateau at our opponents. The mountain lion naturally looks ferocious, but even the stag has mean eyes and antlers far too sharp for a normal animal. I catch a flash of silver and bronze hair, confirming Turis and Climent’s presence. They’re talking to an orange-haired female and a male large enough to rival Wistal, with teeth that curve down past his bottom lip, almost past his chin. As if he senses me watching them, Turis turns and meets my gaze, his cold eyes examining me from across the arena. He goaded me into joining this game, and he’s probably hoping I’ll walk away from it worse for wear—or not at all. He seems to say something about me to Climent, who also turns to watch me, a nasty grin on his face.

The moment is interrupted by a horn blaring and the sound of a small stampede drifting over the rocky sides of the arena. The rumbling grows as a slice of mountain stone is dragged open, and ursinian come thundering into the circle. Their lowing and grunting bounces off the walls, and I flinch as the army of bears rushes straight at us. I try to remember that they’re just looking for their riders, but my survival instincts still have me breaking out into a cold sweat as they stream past.

A snout snuffles at my hand, making me nearly jump out of my skin.

“Parsley,” I say, and the bear-like creature grunts in greeting, nearly taking my eye out with an antler as he lifts his head. To my relief, he’s been fitted with some sort of saddle in the last few minutes, and I follow the cues of the other riders, shoving my foot into one of the stirrups.

Parsley doesn’t fight me this time but waits patiently as I step up and get adjusted on the seat. Pyromey rides over on her own ursinian and hands me a cradle—the tightly woven basket with a handle that I’m supposed to use to catch and throw the ball.

The ball in question has been placed right in the center of the circle—its polished surface makes it shine, clearly visible even from where we stand. Still, it looks ridiculously small in comparison to the size of the arena, not to mention the players who will be fighting for it. I swallow, the dryness in my throat returning, as the wind throws a gust of cold air across the space, reminding us of the brutal drop off one side of the circle.

Remember, you need this team to win.

Simple enough, I think wryly. But right now, my body is shouting at me to forget about playing well and just try to survive. Yet there are bigger things at stake here than bragging rights. Pyromey said it herself—Turis’s victory here is the reason we don’t have Lisinder’s support. It’s up to me to change that however I can.

By now the players are all poised to begin, ursinian and transformed Unseelie alike, straining to be released onto the circle. I can see it will be a race to get to the center, and I look around for what might be a possible opening I can steer Parsley towards—one further away from the bigger players. I can’t help my team if I’m crushed to a pulp, after all.

The horn blares again—twice in quick succession—and the players unleash themselves, the ursinian and transformed fae sprinting towards the center in a storm of motion. Despite my strategizing about a smart direction to approach from, my steed, Parsley, has other ideas. He releases an excited growl and bolts forward in a straight line, directly for the center of the scrum. I tug on the reins, but it’s no use, and he throws himself into the fray as the clash of colliding bodies echoes across the arena.

Chapter 11

Two minutes in, and I’m already in way over my head. My attempts to herd Parsley into a better position does nothing except slow him down, so we hit the back of the pile just as the flanks of other ursinian tighten up against us. The bears snap and nip at each other, and I have to jerk my foot back when one of them champs their powerful jaws too close to my ankle. There’s no way back, so I try to urge Parsley forward towards the center. I use my magic to yank a bear out the way by the metal clasps on its reins. It momentarily gives us more space, but only to reveal a whirl of fur and limbs ahead of us, so thick I can barely make sense of the action. Ten seconds later, a player gets thrown against the arena wall, tossed clear of the circle and his ursinian.

His bones make an audible crunching noise as they collide with the rock.

I have no idea where the ball is until I see Pyromey lift her arm, her viper eyes glinting in triumph and a trickle of blood running from what looks like a bite mark on her shoulder. The edge of the ball is visible where it rattles inside her cradle, and she pivots the device above the scrum. Her ursinian roars, trying to leap free of the tussle. At the same time the bears around them jump back a few steps from a small blast that sends little shards of stone skittering across the plateau. Magic—someone on our team, I think. One of the stones flies up straight towards me and I only just have time to turn my face. It catches me in the cheek and I gasp, expecting the pain to be sharp. It hurts, though not as much as I imagined. Still, I feel a warm wetness trickle down my cheek and wipe the sensation away, smearing my leathers with blood.

When I look up, I see that Pyromey is already over on the other side of the circle, an army of riders bearing down on her. But they’re too late—she’s already tossing the ball between our opponent’s pillars.

The horn blows but is soon overtaken by howls of annoyance from the other team and hoots of glee from ours. I’m pleased by our fresh advantage, but annoyed with myself. I’m going to need to be more use than this if I’m going to help us win—even if it means putting myself in more danger too.

The game starts to reset, and the healers take the moment to come down and drag away the fae crushed against the rocks. Another player sits slumped back on their ursinian, his shoulder at a disturbing angle—dislocated. I watch as he dismounts and argues with the healers for a moment, then he steps away, striding towards the rock face. To my horror, he rams his own arm against the hard surface, shoving his shoulder back into place. The fae massages his arm with a grim look of satisfaction, then turns around and climbs straight back up onto his steed, returning to the circle.

It’s safe to say the Unseelie don’t mess around.

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