Bloodguard

chapter 6

Leith

I grit my teeth. After everything I endured in the arena, the tattoo the frail mage emblazons into my skin should be nothing. But since the moment the magical needle pierced my forearm, beginning to trace the lines of a sword, I understood the full meaning of pain all over again.

My body wants to pull away, every injury screaming at once for mercy. But I keep still. I’ve won my first Bloodguard match. It’s technically an honor to have this coveted symbol on my forearm. If I win the next three, I’ll be allowed to add a vine of thorns that wraps its way down the length of the blade, a rose, and a crown that circles the hilt.

When completed, the tattoo will grant me royal status and mark me as a Bloodguard—a very rich, very powerful, and very dangerous noble. I swallow the bile rising in my throat at what I had to do today to earn this mark. This symbol was once a badge of honor. Now, it serves no purpose so well as to remind the world—and myself—that I’m a killer.

Once the mage is finished, I head straight to the barn and dunk my arm in the horse’s trough. The stable boy gives me ample berth as I lean into it and splash the fresh wound with water. Nags have drunk from here for the better part of the day, and I doubt anyone has thought to clean it recently. But I won’t complain. It eases the sting and floods me with relief.

I stare at the mark. A sword, pointing downward. It’s strong and powerful and should make me feel the same. But all I can think about is Sullivan.

He wore the same symbol.

And it made no difference in the end.

I reach into my pocket to assure myself Sullivan’s hair is still where I shoved it earlier as I left the arena floor. The first chance I get, I’ll bury it someplace Sullivan would’ve liked. Not in the arena, nor in these crowded stables beneath it. And not in the dirty barracks where we sleep with our backs to the wall so no one can surprise us. That place reeks of piss and rotting flesh and all the sins we’ve committed.

Sullivan deserves better, even if those quarters were where our friendship began.

A fresh wave of pain hits me hard in the chest. The worst kind of pain. Grief. But I swallow the bitter taste before it shows on my face.

The familiar sound of wheels bumping across the cobblestones pulls my attention toward the stable entrance.

After my fight, a human guard told me someone wanted to speak to me and not to return to the barracks yet. It’s likely a noble who wants me to wash his hunting dogs, chop his firewood, or some other shit they’re too good to do. The pay for tasks like that is almost as piddling as what we get for winning, but even one coin is one more to help my little sister.

Yet, when I glance at the open gates, I see it’s just another wagon full of gladiators, fresh from their presentation to the royal box. Looks like they will be going out as usual in pairs, no free-for-all this time.

I wonder if my win took the High Lord down a notch, and now they’re having to slow the matches to cover the House’s losses. I can only hope.

The wagon jostles as the other fighters hop off. Most are humans, dwarves, and elves, but one person I recognize is Luther, a giant.

His throat bubbles with boils like those that covered Sullivan, and he grimaces when he scratches them. Fresh blood and pus trickle down his neck, adding to the dry streaks painting his vest.

The guards ease away from the giant. They don’t know what disease he has—they only know they don’t want it. They also don’t want to piss him off. Everyone knows Luther killed a bull with his bare hands during his first fight. It was a similar transgression to feed his family that got him imprisoned and thrown into the games in the first place.

As I watch, the group of gladiators is led in the direction of the pens. This is how the matches usually go: each gladiator is thrown into the arena only two or three at a time. Luther should make it. Although it’s hard to tell sometimes, and I’ve been wrong before.

The stable boy returns to offer me a bucket of water, and I put it to my mouth, drinking hard. The rest, I pour over my head. It’s only enough to refresh me, not fully wash Sullivan’s blood from my hands.

My eyes remain on the gladiators as they pass. I make a show of stretching my muscles so the nearby guards don’t cause a fuss. We’re not supposed to speak to those in line to fight, but I’m damn well speaking to Luther. I start moving toward him, past the row of stalls.

Luther is small for a giant, maybe nine feet tall and half as wide. He walks from side to side on short, tree-trunk legs. Like most giants, the dense musculature of his chest and arms, along with the weight of his large head, bows his hips outward.

I’m almost to the end of the stable when Luther’s small brown eyes shift to mine. I press my boot against a wooden plank, pretending to tie the torn laces.

“Where they?” Luther asks. Protruding jaws often make it hard for giants to speak human languages, so they keep their sentences short.

He means the group I arrived with. “They threw us all in together,” I spit through my teeth.

“All?” he repeats.

The men closest to us crane their necks in our direction. “Oi. Oi! ” Ned, an elf, yells ahead. “They just threw everyone in.”

The commotion draws the attention of the guards, who stare at Luther and me but don’t draw their weapons. The gladiators in the holding pens start to quiet at the realization that they, too, could have been in the group fight, except for some lucky reason the wagon they came in on was spared.

I glance at the tattoo on my arm. None in this lot bear one. Maybe killing them off quickly is less of a priority.

More likely, they intended everyone in my match to die. This wagon would’ve comprised round two and had very different odds.

The House always wins, but that doesn’t stop the people of Arrow from trying to improve their station. I get it. I was gambling, too, when I signed on to become a Bloodguard.

Drool pools on Luther’s bottom lip as he forms his next word. “Sullivan?” he asks.

Long words are hard for him, so the fact he gets a multisyllabic name out shows how important the question is to him.

Hearing Sullivan’s name beats up what’s left of my insides. I shake my head. There’s nothing more to say.

Luther bows his head, his heavy and scruffy brow burying his beady eyes. He’s grieving for Sullivan. It’s brief, but it’s there.

More guards arrive. I give Luther my back then. I may want to rage for Sullivan, but that rage can’t help him now.

I look to the entrance again, wondering about my mystery visitor. I wish he’d hurry it up so I can get on with my day or, at the very least, leave this foul place.

Instead, a small voice catches my attention.

“I want to be you when it’s my time.”

It’s the stable boy again. There are deep-set scars branching across his bald head, fresh pink injuries in addition to older ones. The poor kid has been beaten for years.

He backs away when he catches my scowl. I want to scream at him, tell him he’s a fool for desiring any part of the gladiator life. But I’m the fool for signing up. And this kid’s been through enough violence. He doesn’t need me yelling at him, too.

“How old are you?” I ask.

He tilts his head as though surprised I acknowledged him. “Almost fourteen, sir,” he says.

I thought he was maybe nine at most. He’s probably malnourished, which must have stunted his height.

He points to my forearm, where the fresh tattoo still burns. “I’m going to get a sword like you someday,” he says.

I attempt to soften my tone. He’s the same age as my oldest sister, Rose. It’s hard, though. My voice is still rough from battle. “What’s your name?”

“Gunther,” he replies.

I bend to meet his gaze and press a hand to his shoulder. “I wish you all the best, Gunther.”

“You too, sir! Only three matches more.” Hope that I didn’t intend sparks to life in his soft brown eyes. He pumps his fist and chants as he leaves the stables, “Bloodguard. Bloodguard…”

“Make way!” one of the guards shouts as an elf on horseback rides into the stables. He’s all alone and not in finery, but I recognize him as one of the two men who’d not been cheering in the royal box earlier.

He dismounts, whispering something to his brown-and-white horse that keeps the animal in place.

The lord doesn’t make a sound as he unhooks a large sack tethered to his saddle or as he moves forward. Elves are like that—silent, deadly, keenly skilled. Regardless, he’s no threat to me physically. I can see in his eyes that whatever fight this elf might’ve had in him is long gone. The lonely ones always give in.

“Congratulations on making it to the finals,” he says to me with a nod. He’s older, with dark-gray hair. “I’m Lord Jakeb.” He says it as though being from here is a right, not a privilege. He offers me the sack. “It’s Leith, right? Leith of Siertos?”

It’s Leith of Grey, which is within Siertos, but I don’t correct him. To people like him, everything beyond Arrow’s borders is of no importance.

I take the sack and lower it to my side, my eyes narrowing. “What’s this?”

“A set of clean clothes to celebrate your advancement,” Jakeb explains. “I hope they fit. I had to guess your size.”

“No, I can’t afford this,” I protest. No way am I adding more debt to my ledgers.

“It’s a gift,” Jakeb insists. “You don’t owe me a thing.”

I hold his gaze before asking, trepidation crawling over my skin, “Why?”

“To be kind,” Jakeb replies. The cunning I expect from the aristocracy skates across his features. He’s up to something. I just haven’t figured out what yet. He adds, “You’ve been through a lot.”

“You think?” I ask, then laugh bitterly.

Whatever the reason, I guess keep the free gifts coming. It’s the least these bastards can do. I sling the pack of clothes over my shoulder and level another pointed stare at Jakeb.

He takes a half step back as though realizing he’s too close for my comfort—or his. “I’d like to invite you to stay at my home. There’s plenty of food, a warm bed, and someone to see to your needs. If you have any hope of winning your next three matches, trust me, you’re going to need help.”

My stomach curdles. I don’t like this at all. I’ve had sponsorships before, but this feels…different. This elf doesn’t frequent the arena. He isn’t one of the heavy gamblers who sit along the rail, screaming for a win. Those patrons are easy to distinguish, and the kindness they show us is only to ensure they have an edge for their next bet. This elf… I don’t know what his angle is.

But…a warm bed and food… This bag of clothes he’s handed me alone could resell for a pretty price. My sister Dahlia needs anything she can get. Just because I can’t trust this man doesn’t mean I can’t find a way to turn his agenda to my advantage.

“All right,” I tell him carefully. “Make me a blood oath that there are no charges or fees to be tacked onto my ledger for any kindness you offer, and I accept.”

“As you wish,” he says. From deep within his robes, he produces a dagger and slices his palm, muttering the words elves use to form the binding oath. When he’s done, he offers me his hand. I take it, keeping my attention on his eyes and not on the words traveling from his hand and into my arm, making the small hairs tingle as his oath disappears into my skin.

Once finished, he uses a cloth to wipe the dagger and his hand clean. “Let’s move along, shall we? I’ve already sent word of your arrival.”

I pause. “What if I’d said no?”

Jakeb chuckles. “Oh, my daughter isn’t one to take no for an answer.”

His daughter ? I see. I knew there was more to the bargain. He might not be charging me coin for his kindness, but it appears I do have a duty to oblige. There are worse fates. The aristocracy are hedonistic and think nothing of paying for a good time. If fucking his daughter is the “payment” Jakeb expects for not sleeping in the barracks and pissing in a bucket tonight, I’ll screw his daughter all night long.

Jakeb leaps onto his horse and motions with his hand.

Gunther walks forward with a spotted moon horse, overjoyed by leading such a fine steed. The mare’s nose has a splash of white, as do her hindquarters. Gunther offers me the reins. I don’t take them. This is a test, and one I should use care to pass.

Jakeb laughs, the sound strangely absent of the evil I expect from someone of his status. “You’ll need a horse when you’re a Bloodguard. Her name is Star. She’s a good one, smart and obedient. If you like her, she’s yours when you win. If you don’t like her, give her back to me.” Humor leaves his features. “There will come a time when royals will offer you gold in exchange for favors. Use your earnings to buy a grander steed if you prefer.” He seems to think about what he’s saying. “Choose your allegiances wisely. Not all those in Arrow are as they appear.”

The same could be said of him, but I just nod and take the reins. I’m not the best horseman. My only experience comes from riding nags to plow fields.

So I take a deep breath, shove my boot into the metal stirrup, and pull myself up and over the saddle, biting back a groan of pain from the sudden jostling of my ribs. The arena definitely broke a few bones today. Not to mention what was left of my soul. But I pay neither any mind as I grip the reins tighter.

Jakeb gives me his back, urging his steed forward, and I follow. One guard bows his head as we pass, but the other shakes his head. Whatever.

After we leave the complex, Jakeb urges his moon horse into a canter, and my mount follows with little effort. The mare has an even gait, but still, every bump and clop of her hooves rattles my broken body, and I struggle not to pass out from the pain. We turn onto the road that leads away from this hell, toward the forest lands just outside the city, and I gather my wits, focusing on everything as we pass.

Grass and wildflowers bend away from the wide road like a parting sea. My mother has never seen a flower. Neither had I until I arrived in Arrow. She’d only heard they were pretty. It’s why she named my sisters Rose and Dahlia—she wanted to say she’d held a flower in her lifetime. Most of the kingdoms outside of Arrow are poor, the people fighting over the few scraps of food they’re able to scrabble out of the dead earth. A flower would feel like a betrayal.

When I become a Bloodguard, I’ll buy my mother flowers every day if it makes her smile. I frown, taking note that as we travel farther out of town, the blooms have begun to wilt, their colors not as vivid. Weird.

My stomach twists, and I can’t help but wonder if this is a bad omen.