The boar’s guttural scream echoes up the ridge, crosses the field, makes my teeth grind.
Aether steams from its wound and turns to dust, like silver embers over a bonfire. The dying construct drops to its knees. Spencer charges again, this time spearing the beast between the eyes.
As Spencer runs to his partner, the boar melts into a silver puddle, then explodes into a sea of sparkling ashes.
Spencer and Vaughn make quick work of the remaining hellboar. In two minutes, it’s on all four knees, keening pitifully. In unison, the boys spear it through the skull.
Cheers echo down the ridge as they gather the remaining two victims and run them to safety.
A whistle echoes from above. The first team has finished.
“Three minutes!” someone shouts. A warning to the others.
Greer and Carson are almost done. One boar is down. Greer has deposited both mannequins. They draw two daggers as they run back onto the field. Carson’s flail twirls so fast all I can see are the spiked ends of the maces over the top of their final boar’s head.
But Whitty and Blake are struggling. Somewhere between dropping off their first mannequin and their second, Whitty lost a dagger. They’re surrounded, standing back to back. Blake’s staff arcs up. Connects with the boar’s skull. Sends it to its knees. It’s a heavy blow, but not a killing one.
A chilling scream rips through the night, and I search for the source, panic fluttering in my chest. I fear the worst for my friend, but it’s not Greer who’s in trouble.
One of the boars has Carson pinned beneath it. He kicks and punches with all that he has, but his weapon is yards away.
Greer runs, leaps, and hovers in the air. They land on the second boar’s back, spread their arms wide like a bird—and plunge a dagger into each lung. Carson scrambles backward just as the construct explodes and bright dust sprays his face. Some of it lands in his gasping mouth.
When I turn back, Blake and Whitty are just finishing off their second boar.
All three teams bring their final victim to safety. The first round is over.
And we’re up next.
23
AINSLEY AND TUCKER are the first team that takes to the field holding only their weapons. They dart out before the rest of us, determination clear on their faces, and swords held high; they plan to take out both hellboars first, while unimpeded by mannequins.
It’s a mistake.
There’s a reason everyone else’s strategy included distraction: the boars are big, heavy, easily confused beasts. They’re unable to make quick pivots or turns.
But at a straight charge, they’re nearly unstoppable.
We watch helplessly as the Pages go down in under sixty seconds.
At the last moment before impact, Ainsley shifts left. The weight of the sword takes her off-balance; she trips. She scramble to her feet—and the boar knocks her to the ground. She chokes out a bloodcurdling scream—am I going to watch her be devoured? Gouged to death?—and the boar explodes on top of her.
The second boar is a foot from goring Tucker through the middle—then it explodes mid-chase.
The arena freezes. The only sound is Ainsley crying on the ground as shiny particles rain down on her body.
“Page Edwards needs medical assistance,” Sel says coolly. “She and Page Johnson are disqualified.” Then, he turns to the rest of us and shouts: “The clock is still ticking!”
Sydney and I explode out of our ditch, and so do the other Pages, Celeste and Mina. How much time do we have? Eight minutes, maybe? Eight and a half?
I have to focus.
I have the heaviest mannequin over my shoulders, tucked against my weapon. My only thought is my agreed-upon goal—delivery. Behind me, one of Sydney’s daggers whistles through the air. A deep thunk. The boar chasing me hits the ground. The earth shakes.
I don’t look back; she planned to kill it in one strike, and I have no doubt she did.
The mannequin is heavy, but once I get momentum, I almost forget about it. And suddenly, I’m on the other side, heaving it up and over my head like a sack of potatoes.
I run wide back to our base, hoping to stay out of the other boar’s sight. I know Sydney is saving her other dagger. We can’t afford to make her use it on me.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see her dancing and weaving away from the monster. No, can’t look. One goal: delivery.
I skid into our base and hoist the next-smallest mannequin, just like we’d planned.
Move the heaviest first, while I’m fresh. Save the lightest for last, when I’m spent.
I’m halfway across the field when I trip over Sydney’s first dagger, abandoned in the grass. The mannequin and I go flying. It lands three feet in front of me—with a loud thud that draws our boar’s attention.
Sydney’s quick. She yells. Waves. Jumps to distract it, but—of course—our remaining boar has a scrap of focus.
Its beady eyes find me, and it charges.
I flash through my options: too far from the other side of the arena, can’t stand my ground, can’t use the mannequin in defense, can’t carry it and outrun the boar.
I grab Sydney’s knife and shoot to my feet, shouting at her, “Get it to safety!” I hope she knows what I mean.
I sprint back to our base, but arc wide so that the boar after me will curve too—and avoid trampling the lifeless mannequin on the ground.
Behind me, thundering hooves pound the earth. My thighs and lungs are on fire. Still, I push harder. I can hear its breathing—heavy grunts through a wet snout.
I veer left again to buy myself time, but the change in direction is too sharp, too fast. Something pulls painfully in my left knee. I keep running and fling myself into the ditch. My shoulder clips a pine tree, bark digs into my arm, but the frustrated squeal behind me lets me know I’ve made it. I’m safe.
When I twist back on my knees and look up, the boar is pawing at the ground and snorting in my direction. I hold my breath and watch as its heavy head begins swinging back and forth. Searching.
I’m less than six feet away, why is it—
It can’t see me. Its eyes are weak.
A twig snaps beneath my right foot, and its ears flick forward, its snout lifting in a slow, searching pattern.
But it can hear me. It has a good sense of smell. Great.
Did Sydney do what I asked? Did she grab the mannequin and get it to the other side? I don’t bother looking behind me; I know the smallest mannequin is there, still waiting to be rescued. How much time is left?
I hear shouting and pounding feet to my left. Celeste and Mina are still in the arena, still working.
My boar is pacing now, stubbornly waiting for me to come out so it can gore me. I’ve got to do something.
Okay. Think.
I have Sydney’s dagger, but I don’t have her throwing skills or aim. I have my cudgel still strapped to my back, but at this angle I don’t have enough power for more than a hard poke to the chin. I look around, to my side—then up.
I shove Sydney’s dagger handle into my mouth and start climbing the oak tree beside me before I decide whether it’s a good idea or not. All I know is that I know trees. I’ve climbed them since I was a kid. Trees are good.
I step up onto the large burl overgrowths on either side of the oak, gripping their bulbous shapes as well as I can with sneakers, and wrap my hands around to find the next burl—hoist myself up. The boar’s head lifts to follow me, but I’m gambling that it can’t see me very well and just knows that I’m moving. The limbs are too far up to do me any good, but I stop about ten feet up with one arm in a death grip around the trunk, precariously balanced on a burl just wider than my shoe.