Bloodguard

chapter 14

Leith

I dreamed of my sister Dahlia last night. How she held my hand in the darkness when she struggled to sleep. She’d squeeze tight through the worst of her hunger pangs, her small hand slipping from mine when she finally drifted off.

It was good to see my little shadow, even in a dream. But when I awoke, somehow all I could think of was Maeve.

She must have doused me with some kind of delirium potion as she treated my injuries. It’s the only explanation for why I’m so recklessly drawn to a royal. Why I agreed to fucking marry one. Oh man, if Sullivan could see me now.

Even now, that feeling of wanting her close remains. She claims this is a business venture, but I saw the way she looked at me…

I grit my jaw and remind myself what’s kept me alive these last three years. No matter what heat I see in her gaze, she’s right. We should keep our distance.

This is just business.

Yeah, keep telling yourself that, Leith.

I shrug on my training gear as I stare out the small cottage window. She said she would return to check on me today, but it’s not her lithe body I spy gliding toward the door.

I reach for a knife Maeve left on the table just as there’s a knock. I swing the wooden door wide and find another woman with liquid-honey hair and matching eyes blinking up at me. I don’t recognize her, though there’s something familiar in her features. She can’t be more than five feet and change, and a quick scan reveals no bulges in her clothing where a wand or weapon might reside. Still, I don’t want the company.

“What?” I ask, my voice as unfriendly as my tightening features.

She doesn’t say anything, just tugs her cape closed around her body—she looks no more than eighteen or nineteen—her gaze fixed on the kitchen knife in my hand.

I toss the blade onto the table with a clatter, then reach up to lean my tall frame against the door, blocking her entrance.

“What do you want?” I ask, my voice still gravelly.

“Um.” She takes me in from head to toe before blurting, “You’re big.”

I sigh. “You must be related to Maeve.”

She cocks her head. “How did you know?”

“She also loves stating the obvious,” I deadpan. “Now, what do you want?”

She holds my gaze, a smile beginning to curl the corners of her mouth. “I thought today would be a splendid day to meet my future brother-in-law.”

And on that note, I take a step back and move to close the door.

She chuckles and rushes on. “Wait, wait. I’m Maeve’s stepsister, Giselle, and she asked me to give you this.”

I glance down at her small, outstretched hand. An even smaller box with a note attached rests in her palm. I don’t reach for either.

She shakes her head, patience apparently running thin, and tosses it to me. My traitorous reflexes kick in, snatching the parcel that I unequivocally do not want right out of the air. “I also have places to be,” she says with one eyebrow cocked before turning with a wave. “See you later, Leith.”

And just like that, the girl heads back down the path that cuts through the forest and to the manor. She fucking tricked me.

I stare at the gift in my palm like it might bite. Knowing Maeve, it probably will at least sting a little. I reach for the note first.

Dear Leith,

This tonic should ease your aches while you recover more today. I’m off to see how I can be of service.

Be safe,

Maeve, your charming and talented fiancée

I almost chuckle. The woman is nonsense. Alluring but pure nonsense.

Regardless, I toss the note on the table, open the small package, and pull out a vial with bright-green liquid inside. I don’t even hesitate, just pop the cork and down half the elixir. And immediately regret it.

“For fuck’s sake,” I bark to the empty room as the liquid burns its way down my throat and sets my stomach on fire. The inferno soon engulfs my entire chest before sparking through my veins to muscle, skin, and bone, my blood and tendons aflame from head to toe. Sweat beads along my forehead within seconds, and I feel dizzy. I stagger, catching myself just as I stumble to my knees. The damn woman has poisoned me.

And I have no one to blame but myself. I should have known not to trust her.

I blink through the pain, my vision blurring as the agony singes away every thought but the fury at Arrow and everyone in this fucking kingdom.

But the thought has no more than formed before a cool iciness replaces the burning, then a sweet, blissful numbness. One, two breaths of nothingness, and then I’m back in my body—a body alive with feeling but no longer in pain.

I stagger back to my feet. My palm presses onto the stone table, where the note is flipped over. I reach for it when I realize there’s writing on the back.

P.S. — Dilute the tonic with a large goblet of water. Otherwise, it will set your insides on fire.

“Thanks, Princess,” I mutter, but I don’t actually care. Not when every gouge and laceration on my body feels like new. I put the cork back in the bottle and shove the remaining half of the elixir inside my pocket.

I flex my left hand, examining the two-inch scar that now mars the space between my fourth and final fingers. I curl my fingers in toward my palm and immediately recoil at the sudden, sharp discomfort. Oh no, no, no, no. I reach for Maeve’s knife, already knowing what I’ll find. Fuck.

My grip is weak. Too weak to effectively two-hand wield a heavy blade. I am a gladiator with one hand tied behind his back. It dawns on me that this injury could realistically cost me my life, and for the first time in a very long while, I am scared.

Another knock sounds at the door, and my stomach sinks as I swing the door open and find Jakeb on the other side. His visit can mean only one thing… I’ve been called in to fight again. Fuck.

As Jakeb escorts me back to the arena of hell, I try to find the silver lining in being called to fight again so soon. At least I’ll be one fight closer to freedom.

Three more challenges.

Three more battles left to win.

One more that can save Dahlia. The second to push me to the last. And the very last to spoil my family for the rest of their lives. I’ll have the means to bring them here, to Arrow, and away from the destitution found in Siertos.

Jakeb and I trot to the city on horseback, my chest roiling when we pass a rickety wagon filled with impoverished men of varying species from different parts of Old Erth. Headed to the barracks, no doubt.

There’s a young wizard from Tanlita. I can tell by the intricate tattoo that runs bilaterally along her skull. She looks like she just turned twenty-two. I don’t know who to be angrier with—the recruiters or her elders—for encouraging her to die.

It’s too late. Everyone in that wagon signed their lives away. Even if they didn’t, even if escape didn’t mean death, they could never afford passage back to their homelands.

I shove the feelings of bitterness away. I can’t save them. I can only save Dahlia. Maybe Maeve will do as she says and end the games when she takes the throne. I don’t even consider what I might be able to do as her husband. We made a deal, and evil or not, I’d trade every gladiator’s life for my sister’s. I proved as much in the last match, didn’t I?

In no time, we reach the city center. This section is bustling and noisy, filled with the Middling merchants and their shops.

Sprites scurry from one table to the next at their stands, cutting and sewing sheets of leather for shoes and boots, their gossamer wings flapping madly. A band of dwarves pushes a cart of fresh vegetables up the hill toward the food market, the traditional pointy yellow-and-brown hats they wear soiled from hard work in the fields. Two ogres walk hand in hand, peering at wares from a cart featuring bracelets of various shapes and colors.

A noble human in a long silk dress strolls with another human wearing garish purple, coral, and bright-green robes. She laughs and slides her arm through his crooked elbow as they meander around the market. They ignore all the workers among them, their extreme wealth worn like a mask over their eyes, until a small child pulls on the man’s purple robes, seemingly begging for scraps.

The man rears back and slaps the child clean across the face, yelling something about soiling his finery. The revolting action has me seeing red, but when the woman laughs, that red deepens and my body demands action.

“Something troubling you, Leith?” Jakeb asks.

“I’m fine,” I say, clenching my fists as the woman pushes past the child to continue her leisurely stroll. Those “with” rarely understand the world of those “without”—no sense wasting my breath, even on Jakeb.

When we reach the edge of the square, a horn blasts twice—a gladiator just won a match. I frown in the direction of the arena. According to the position of the sun, it’s hours earlier than we usually start.

“We had better hurry,” Jakeb says.

With a squeeze of my legs, my mare takes off, coming to a canter slightly behind Jakeb’s horse. The sheer height of the coliseum makes it easy to spot from almost anywhere in the city, as does the magic being unleashed within the arena, making the sky above it blur and shimmer like a mirage.

From time to time, matches aren’t merely gladiator against gladiator or beast. Sometimes, the audience is rewarded with magic-enhanced combat schemes. I once had to fight in the middle of a magic-made sandstorm, visibility down to nothing thanks to the tiny particles swirling around me. I kept my eyes squeezed tight and relied on my other senses to alert me to danger. Or, more accurately, just kept swinging until I hit everything trying to kill me.

Today, a storm brews above the center of the arena, gathering momentum as it swirls and expands. Thunder crashes, and lightning showers the sky above the match with color. On either side of the coliseum walls, though, there’s only peace, and above the magic mirage flickering over the top of the storm, clear skies.

We ride past the manicured gardens along the wall surrounding the arena. They are enormous and as fragrant as Maeve’s potions. Yet they aren’t enough to counter the stench of death that permeates the air as we reach the gate.

It creaks open, and I almost hesitate to pass through.

I kick my heels, and we head toward the stables beneath the arena. Gunther beams as soon as he sees me and pumps his fist in the air.

“Bloodguard!” he shouts.

“Hello, Gunther.” I keep my tone neutral. The last thing I want to do is encourage him.

He holds my horse by the reins. It’s strange to dismount from a horse here, instead of being hauled through crammed inside a caged wagon like I’m used to. I’m well fed today, wearing expensive and clean clothes, with new leather armor and boots I’ve yet to fully break in. The stiff leather squeaks with every step.

A wave of shame burns my chest as I catch sight of a line of half-starved gladiators awaiting their turn to compete. I let the feeling glide through and past me like a breeze. Shame is an emotion I have no use for now.

As soon as Gunther leads my horse to a stall, a band of eight palace guards surrounds me.

I raise my hands in surrender to placate them. As thanks, I’m shoved forward, and my wrists and ankles are immediately shackled.

The chains feel heavier and more suffocating than I remember, but their weight helps me find that familiar hatred I need as much as weapons in the arena.

“Welcome back, friend,” a guard sneers.

He punches me exactly where that axe wound was. Had Maeve not tended to me, that punch would have incapacitated me. Instead, I merely let out a curse.

The stench of animal waste burns my nose as we move toward the back. I shuffle forward, keeping pace. A new guard behind me pokes me with her sword. She’s not rushing me, nor have I disobeyed. She’s just reminding me she has the authority to do it.

She pokes me again, and I grit my teeth against the sharp bite of pain.

I don’t make another sound, though, even as fresh blood seeps into my once-clean shirt.

Jakeb, who I thought would be sitting in the royal box by now, comes up beside me. His silver robe flutters in my periphery, but I can’t see his face.

“The gladiator is not resisting,” Jakeb tells the guard who poked me. His voice quavers. “There was no need to bloody him this close to battle.”

I don’t need to see him to hear the anger and disgust in his tone.

The guard chuckles, mistaking the tremble in his voice for fear. “Lord Caelen waits for you in the stands, Lord Jakeb,” she says. “Perhaps you should join him instead of wasting your time on this corpse.”

“A corpse who’s better dressed and better fed than you,” I point out.

My smile holds tight even as I’m shoved hard for my insolence.

“Watch your tongue, gladiator,” a different guard calls out but then thinks better of it and laughs, adding, “or don’t. I’m certain what awaits you today will enjoy biting it clean from your throat.”

The other guards join in, laughing outright now.

Aw, hell, that doesn’t sound promising.

The guards reposition to keep Jakeb out as we reach the pens, and my stomach clenches. The animals are gone, probably taken for slaughter to feed the spectators in the food tents on the opposite side of the arena. The slop and feces left behind ripen in the heat. It’s a stench I’ll never get used to.

“Need I remind you of my position?” Jakeb asks.

A smaller woman clears her throat but not her seedy grin. “No reminding needed, sir.”

The rest of the guards ignore him, and Jakeb grows more insistent. “I have paid High Lord Vitor a hefty sum to sponsor this man—”

“He is in your care when you leave the arena grounds,” a different guard interrupts. “When he’s here, he’s ours to tend to. Now leave,” he spits, and I think my jaw actually drops. A castle guard giving orders to a nobleman? That comment alone would earn him a death sentence from Soro. Maybe I can’t tell one lord from the next, but surely these guards recognize the man I now know is the prince’s husband. Even if the prince is locked up.

“Your distinguished presence is not welcome here with the rest of us dogs,” he continues. “You wouldn’t want to soil your fine robes—”

“Do not order me about,” Jakeb fires back, drawing his lean elven body to its full height. “When he finishes, return him immediately to me.”

“ All the pieces?” yet another guard offers. “Sure, if that’s what you want.”

Jakeb pauses, leveling a glare at each guard with a steely glint as he runs a hand over one of the gems on his robe, a subtle reminder of who has the real power and wealth here. “You will return all of him to my care. And if you ever disrespect me again, it’s you who will be returned in pieces. Do I make myself clear?”

No apology is offered to Jakeb as he strides away, and while a few guards continue to grumble to each other, others go quiet. Prince Andres may be in prison, but Jakeb is still his husband and royal consort. They know that a lord of his status can still wield power. But he’s clearly lost his grip on his position. It’s the only explanation for why they screwed with him like they did.

My lip curls into a snarl. Of course the only royal offering me help is one who’s clawing her way to the throne, not already sitting pretty on one. That tracks.

With a curse, I let it go, focusing ahead and away from the crowded pens stuffed with gladiators. I focus on the misery that awaits behind those stone walls as I am shoved toward the opening of the arena.

As a reminder of the pure fuckery the royals are capable of, a fresh collection of mournful gray clouds circles the arena. Lightning strikes, followed by a strong taste of metal. A mage or a wizard conjured this storm, and this spell-wielder has centuries of experience, given the heaviness in the skies.

Murmurs escalate to shouts from within the arena. More lightning in dizzying shades of green and purple strikes. The crowd applauds, enjoying the light show.

I’m shoved forward again, and from practice, I know to go with the momentum, sliding through the muck on the floor in order to stay upright rather than pushing back.

The attendees in the arena shout with glee and excitement. They’re fascinated by the magic…not by the sounds of battle.

Blazes, what’s happening? There’s nothing indicating a match is underway.

The gate squeaks open, and I’m thrown into a pen off to the side. I slide across the mud and past Pega, an older gladiator who joined the same year I did. I haven’t seen her in a while—figured she died in the arena. Again, I keep my footing, disappointing the damn guards.

The gladiators look at me, most in bewilderment, as a guard tethers me to them.

Sibor eyes me up and down. She’s from Tanlita like the young wizard I saw earlier, but her blond hair is so long, the tattoo inked to her skull isn’t visible. If memory serves—and it always does about these things—she fights dirty. “Hell, boy. What did you have to suck to earn that getup?” she asks.

I ignore her.

I glance around my pen, counting fighters until my stomach sinks. We’re short at least four men and one giant.

“Where’s Olatd?” I ask. “And Luther?”

Pega rolls her shoulder. She’s shorter and leaner than most of her dwarven brethren, but her offense is superb, and her counter strikes are almost equal to mine. A commoner from Arrow, she tried making money any way she could, but working as a blacksmith and a horse trainer and a tailor didn’t provide enough for her and her orphaned nephew. So, she entered the arena with the same goal as the rest of us. Three years later, she loathes the kingdom as much as I do. As foolish as it is, I’m glad she’s still around.

The left side of her face is drooped from an unfair match last month, slurring her speech. “Olatd is dead, along with the four new recruits who were dumped in first,” she says. “Luther is alive. ’Cept he won’t make it to midnight.” Her hands clench and unclench. She likes Luther. A lot of us do. “The filthy mongrels are bringing him back now.”

Ned, an elf with short brown hair and a beard shorn to a point, curses like it’s his first language. His village borders the one Sullivan was from in Witoria, making his accent just as thick as my old friend’s, but I can still make out most of the words damning the gentry to the bowels of Old Erth. As far as fighting ability goes, Ned’s around the middle of the pack, which means sooner or later he’ll die here.

I shuffle forward, my shiny boots already stained with mud. “How bad is it?”

“Real bad,” Ned mutters. “This is the day we all finally bite it.” Sooner, then.

Five dead and Luther dying. We’re being massacred. Why?

“What time did they start today?” I ask.

Ned rubs his red eyes. “Hour past, I think.”

The battle horn blasted when we reached the city. It was early, yet we thought we were late and had missed the first match. But it wasn’t the first. It took barely an hour to lose almost six gladiators.

Shit .

In the arena, the show of spells continues, still without any signs of fighting.

I jerk my chin toward the sky. “That’s a magical storm,” I say, not that they need me to tell them.

“It is,” Ned agrees, tugging on his beard, twirling the hairs into a finer point. “The bastards are trying to draw out the day. Too many died too fast, and with little effort.” It’s only now I see how gray his skin appears. Ned is never one to panic. Usually. “I overheard a herald in the town square promise today’s game would be never-before-seen levels of horror.”

My only answer is a grunt. Not much more to say than that.

Sibor stomps on the chain binding her, attempting to break it. She’s ready to run, forgetting there’s nowhere to go. “Whatever they picked this time must be worse than the dragon you and Sullivan met,” she says.

Ned wipes his nose with the back of his hand, soiling his face further. He grimaces, shaking his head as his red eyes glisten. “Luther was the only one who put up a fight against them, and he just about died doing it.”

“Them?” I question.

Pega scratches her hurt ankle. It’s infected and raw from the shackles. “We’re here for their pleasure, and their pleasure means our hides. One way or another.”

My voice comes out hollow. “What exactly happened to Luther?”

Sibor motions to the right. “Nothing good.”

Several moon horses whinny and neigh, protesting the large, flat cart they’re struggling to pull. Luther is stretched across it, secured by chains wrapped around his chest and arms.

But there’s no need to shackle him. He couldn’t escape if he tried.

He’s pale as white ash, saturated with sweat, and naked except for the loincloth barely covering his groin. Bite marks as long as my arm ransack his body, face, and what remains of his legs. His left foot dangles, barely held on by a flap of muscle.

Luther’s head droops to the side. He sees me, his expression anguished. Water , he mouths.

“Poor bastard,” Ned says. He spits. “Those ruthless shits won’t even give ’im a drink.”

“Who’s going back to the pen with him?” I turn to the gladiators when no one responds. “Is anyone going back with Luther?”

“Nah,” Ned replies. “There’s no one alive to go back with ’im, remember? No one else made it.”

My focus returns to Luther as he continues to roll past us. It’s another way to humiliate him and intimidate us.

Water , he mouths again.

I curl into myself like I’m just stretching my muscles. Instead, I dig into my shirt and pull out the vial Maeve sent me earlier, still half full. I kept it on me in case I needed to push through the agony again. But Luther needs it more.

“Pass this down,” I mutter. “Make sure Luther gets it.”

I’m met with frowns or others outright looking away. I shove it into Sibor’s hand. “Do it,” I hiss.

Sibor clenches her fists. I lower my stance, prepared to fight.

“It’s for Luther,” I snap, keeping my voice low. “It’ll help him.”

She eases her posture then and does as I tell her, passing the small vial down the line until it reaches the following pen. As soon as a troll takes it, he tries to pocket it.

My words slice at the air. “Do you know who I am?” I ask him. He shakes his head. “You will if you don’t get that to the giant suffering on the cart.”

An elf gladiator smacks the troll on the arm. “Do it,” he orders.

Down the line it goes in whispers. A few guards move in to inspect the commotion. I can’t let them see it. I kick, pelting them with mud. They turn around, their whips and swords raised.

“Who did that?” one demands.

More mud is flung at them, this time from three pens down. Ned kicks more at them as the wagon carrying Luther nears the exit. There’re too many of us in these pens and not enough space to see for sure if the numbing vial reached him.

A guard opens the gate to my pen, and in my determination to see Luther, I don’t realize what’s coming until it’s too late. I’m hauled out by another guard who caught me flinging mud.

He kicks me in the gut—twice. It’s impossible to hold back my reaction this time. Hell, it’s impossible just to breathe . I fall to my knees, coughing as my shackles are unlocked. This is what I get for trying to help someone. To hell with these guards. To hell with the royals.

To hell with everyone in Arrow.

“This one wants to go first.” The guard shakes me. “Don’t you, pretty boy?”

My toes drag along the soil as I’m carried, and the laces of one of my boots fall loose. The shoe slides off my foot as the sound of opening gates echoes in my ears, and a laughing guard rips off my other with a joke about how dead men don’t need nice leather. I’m down to my socks now. Another disadvantage.

I try to regain my footing, but it’s pointless. The bright arena opens before me, and I’m hurtled onto the sand.