Bloodguard

chapter 15

Leith

The first thing I notice as I stumble into the arena alone is that the sand is wet. But it hasn’t rained for a couple of days, not even from the magically produced storm clouds above us.

Why is the sand wet ?

The cheers spreading along the arena at my arrival turn heady. As I push to my feet, bearing most of my weight on my right hand, the thunderous clouds roar in welcome. Lightning replies with equal menace, decorating the sky in sparks of green and alternating shades of purple.

My socks, already soaked through, leaden my steps. They’ll limit my movements and could cause me to trip, so I shuck them off, my toes sinking into the wet sand. I concentrate on the human mage standing on a small terrace above the royal boxes where High Lord Vitor and General Soro sit.

The mage appears youthful, but her short gray hair gives away her true age. Either way, I would have pegged her at about three hundred years old based on the strength of her magic.

She’s dressed in a gown of bloodred with lips painted the same revolting color.

To draw more attention to her presence, sparkles of purple appear above her, each detonating and showering her with bright light.

If I could reach her from this distance, I wouldn’t hesitate to attack. I’d race forward, side to side, back and forth, avoiding her spells. I’d leap onto the wall and scale it. Before anyone could move to defend her, her skull would meet the lip of the terrace.

That would be my plan. It would work, too, if this damn arena wasn’t so huge.

More lightning crashes, and more dark clouds appear to join the rest competing for attention. I keep waiting for something, anything , to happen aside from the magical performance. There are no weapons. None have been brought, and nothing indicates they’re coming.

Maybe the lack of weapons is my punishment for winning too many times.

No. Forget that. Back-to-back slaughters aren’t ideal for spectators thirsty for action. They’re too quick. These sadists are setting up for a nice, long, torturous event.

I take deep, calming breaths. Three more matches. Only three.

I’ve already beaten the most extreme odds just to make it this far.

The rush I feel is familiar. It rides the knife’s edge of fear, but I use it to narrow my focus and strengthen my resolve to fight, kill, survive.

To win.

I walk farther toward the center, ignoring yet another stupendous display of magic that the attendees can’t get enough of. They applaud and cheer with every deadly roar of the mage’s thunder and every strike of lightning that crackles across the clouds. She’s riling them up and personifying the danger that awaits.

As always, I scan the area, searching for weak points and anything I can use within my reach.

When my gaze comes to the royal box, I spot Jakeb first as he makes his way down a row, his light silk robe fluttering in the breeze. A familiar black-haired elf with braids, the sides shaved close to his copper skin, stands to permit him through, his military robe of green and blue just as regal.

Jakeb shakes his head, the slow, purposeful motion a warning. He says something to the soldier, and both turn to see me, their faces as ominous as the sky above.

Very deliberately, he rights himself and sits between his daughters. Maeve’s sister—Giselle, I think—hooks an arm in his, appearing to comfort Jakeb. Her robe is the color of light sandstone and blends in with the stands so well that I would have missed her entirely had she not stood when her father appeared. When she sees me, she pulls her hood up and forward so her hair is covered and her face is only partially exposed.

Weird. What is she hiding?

Jakeb nods as I pass. He’s oddly calm. The soldier with black braids next to Giselle isn’t. His gaze shifts from side to side, his fingers thrumming the hilt of his sword. He doesn’t seem to notice me. It’s just as well—I’m not here to impress him. When my attention latches on to Maeve, she pretends not to notice, but I definitely see her.

She is primped and pressed to perfection, white jewels sparkling in her rich auburn hair, her blue dress trimmed with shimmering sapphires that reflect the flashes of lightning. Maeve appears every bit the royal she is…all signs of the rustic healer from the cabin gone. Her gaze darts around the arena as though she only just arrived and is trying to catch up on anything she missed.

I wasn’t sure she’d be here today. She made a blood oath to help me, but I’m not sure how she’ll live up to it or if the information she finds will even be useful.

I roll my shoulders. For all she’s trying to pretend not to notice me, her blue eyes finally land on mine, and she stills, her expression unreadable from this distance. All I can tell is she isn’t smiling. I give no indication I recognize her. Our engagement is a ploy to help her achieve her own goals. Boasting about it or letting people know our intentions will only get me killed faster. Even if she wanted to make it public, I’m not the guy who blows kisses. I’m the man who casts the last blow.

I put her out of my mind as I continue moving. Knowing she’s watching and expecting me to win is a distraction I can’t afford.

Lightning and thunder continue their dance, their booming effects escalating as I close the distance between the mage and me. I pretend not to notice that I am a mere toy and this display is meant to unnerve me and inflict terror. I won’t give them the satisfaction of watching me cower.

With a swoop of her hands and a flutter of fingertips, the mage lowers the tumultuous sky she’s constructed, quieting the crowd as they watch to see what’s coming next. As if they have anything to worry about, the royals huddle closer, using their robes and hoods to protect their fine hair and jewelry.

These fools are too spellbound to see past her conjurings. But I notice everything. Whatever magic she’s concocted allows her full control of the storm. I’m not a fool, nor am I so arrogant that I don’t respect her skill. What I am is a man determined to bring her down.

Having played this game enough, I understand the objective. These royals enjoy mayhem. The mage won’t strike me down, yet , or do anything so silly as to transform me into a rabbit that a random lion thrown in could easily maul.

No. She was brought in for a specific purpose, and she will not disappoint.

She is facing in my direction now. I know her type. She’s smiling and very much enjoying what she believes is the start of my inevitable doom.

I reach the center and stop. Bow my head slightly. Clasp my hands in front of me and set my back as rigid as a slab of quartz.

It’s time to simply wait for weapons to arrive—if they arrive—and for her to cast the first stone. I don’t have to wait long.

Ribbons of purple form around her body, the final loop winding over her throat. I expect a taunt as sharp as a battle cry and as magnified as the lords when they speak.

“Are you ready to die?” the mage asks, her voice magically amplified.

I raise my chin and reply as loudly as I can. “No. But I am ready to kill you.”

Laughter scatters across the arena like pollen over a field of tulips. Some of it is forced and mocking, some of it genuine, but what interests me are those who don’t laugh.

That group knows better than to count me out. Jakeb is among them, and Maeve, the soldier, and Giselle.

“ You would kill me , gladiator?” the mage mocks. “You’re a pig. Weak, whining, and so easily gutted.”

“Now, now, you shouldn’t talk about your father that way,” I reply.

The laughter this time is almost as thunderous as her storm clouds.

“I’m going to destroy you.” She sneers at the insult. Then she smiles in a way that promises a long, slow death.

I’m starting to think she doesn’t like me.

At a snap of her fingers, a thunderous boom echoes across the sky, its magnitude vibrating the sand and creating small fissures along the stone walls. I crouch and spread my arms, expecting an attack from all sides.

But instead, it comes from above. A massive downpour. And because that’s not enough, the arena floor rapidly sinks. I didn’t even realize it could do that—and maybe it can’t. Maybe magic is playing a part. For the moment, that’s not my priority. I’m just trying to breathe.

There are storms that have flooded the caves of Siertos so quickly, if you aren’t skilled at breath-holding, you can’t make it out before drowning. I’ve never been so thankful in my life that the elders trained me to farm for belladom among the caves. I take as deep a breath as I can, expanding my lungs as I was taught, getting ready for that one last breath I might be allowed.

But this flooding is unlike anything I’ve ever endured. The rain she conjures doesn’t start with a sprinkle or those heavy drops that promise soggy lands and overfilled barrels. The makeshift sky pours water like a spout into a bucket where an unsuspecting insect awaits. Except this time, the quickly sinking arena is that bucket, and I’m the bug—just as screwed.

The entirety of the arena almost instantaneously floods, even with the added volume as the floor sinks. I’m drenched and already standing in thigh-high water.

Luther…he wasn’t soaked with sweat when I saw him. He was half drowned. He wasn’t thirsty—he was trying to warn me. Water.

Except one word could not have prepared me for this.

The force with which the deluge pounds into the ground creates dangerous waves. I ride the first few, but as the level rises, I’m compelled to swim under them and across the arena.

I wrench my eyes open, trying to get my bearings. At first, it’s dark, and the gritty sand scratches my exposed skin. The pitch-black storm clouds above rob me of light, and the heavy mix of soil and sand obliterates my sight.

As the water deepens, the sand settles enough that I can see.

It’s been years since I’ve swum. During the wet season, water replaces Siertos’s desert landscape, causing us to go from dry and blistering to wet and cold almost overnight.

But the swimming lessons taught me to hold strong. I concentrate on relaxing my strokes, making each come more naturally so I can move swiftly through this rage-filled sea.

I forget there’s nowhere to go. I need to preserve my strength and attempt to relax.

It doesn’t take long for the water to become more of a friend that I can move with and not an enemy I’m forced to fight.

The crowd cheers when I come up for air, grateful the mage didn’t drown me and ruin their good time. I can’t place where I am in the arena, though. The walls aren’t visible through the rainfall, despite how its severity has lessened.

Nothing is close enough to guide me. I try to gauge my position based on distance from the screaming crowd, but even they are hard to hear through this weather.

All exits were likely sealed by the mage and her spell. Even if they weren’t, there’s no benefit to finding one. If I break through, it will take too long for the water to drain, and the force could suck me through and eliminate me for leaving the arena.

What does she have in store for me? I didn’t drown, and as far as I can tell, I’m the only one in here.

I swim in the direction where the crowd is crammed and at its loudest. That’s where Vitor and his cohorts are seated and where my opponent should appear. I want to be close, just not so close that I can’t use the distance in my favor.

My strokes carry me smoothly across the water. This swim would be enjoyable if it weren’t for the filth and death trapped in the sand from a century of battles.

Again, I come up for air, trying to get a feel for what I might be up against next.

The mage, while gifted enough to perform this degree of magic, isn’t perfect. Spells of this caliber are rare and daunting. They’re also impossible to maintain for long periods, as they drain the wielder’s energy.

She can’t kill me with another spell.

Not while she’s preserving the sea she conjured.

She’s the first act of what will be a very deadly play. So, what’s the second act, and why all the waiting?

Something large is hurtled into the arena, followed by another. I wait a moment, just long enough to make sure they aren’t alive and looking to eat me, then dive under and swim down…

Several sacks secured with rope rest at the bottom. I go back up for air, fill my lungs as much as possible, and dive down again. It takes several moments of yanking the rope to spill the contents.

The first sack contains a shield, a trident, and a glass globe the size of my head, along with a pipe. It’s a device of sorts to help me breathe underwater, if only for a short while. I release it and let it float to the top. It will take me time to figure it out—time that could impede me. If the weapons are already distributed, I’m out of time and need to hurry.

The second sack is slightly easier to open. Several daggers lie on top. I push them out and grab the handle of a scythe the length of a short sword. The last two items are a rapier and a wooden sword with a sharp metal point.

What in the shit and stones is this mess?

I’m losing air at a faster rate than I intend, unable to get past the wooden sword. Its hilt is wrapped with strange plush leaves and twine, like something a child might play with, if it wasn’t for the sharp, pointed tip. I determine the lords are trying to trick me and move it aside.

I decide on the trident and the largest dagger, shoving the latter into my belt as I kick for the surface again.

Whatever bit into Luther like a sweet treat is due to arrive soon. I take in the immediate area, treading water as I wait for whatever it is to strike. The wooden sword floats toward my face and stops.

How…

I swim toward the center. The weapon follows. I try returning to where I first started. The weapon shadows me the rest of the way. It’s not easy for me to see and likely impossible for the royals to notice from this distance. So how is this happening?

It brushes against my arms, poking at me with its hilt and insisting I take it. I frown and dive, swimming away from the wooden sword, certain it’s a trap.

My lungs were ready to burst by the time I retrieved my weapons, and they resist as I dive now. As the rain lessens to a breathable degree, I take the time to settle my nerves and surface again, pulling in several slow and deep breaths.

In the minutes it took me to forage through the sacks, the mage finished filling the arena. Waves slap at the edges where several royals crane their necks, pointing and cheering when they find me alive.

The rain, though lighter than before, remains heavy. I can’t gauge my exact position. The only grace is that I can breathe and have a moment to shake out my nerves. Only a moment.

Screams and shrieks sound from ahead of me, followed by the trampling noises of a fleeing crowd. There’s a sharp snap like a bear trap shutting, then another, then several more.

I dive and swim in the direction of the more terrified screams. I need to get close enough to see what’s frightened them. To spare the energy I’ll need against my opponent, I use the water’s current to help carry me toward the commotion.

An intense succession of ripples bats against my side. I angle my body and head in the direction where they originate.

Above me, more screams pierce through the water, accompanied by that same awful snapping. There’s a brief pause in the screaming before heavy objects drop into the water like boulders. Unlike last time, the newcomers thrash violently, stirring up sand at the bottom of the arena until I can barely make out my own feet.

I feel it then. A primal sort of fear, one I can’t stamp out, but which sets my every sense on high alert. Higher. Humans are built for land, and I have none to stand on. Whatever creatures they dropped in here… I’m not just on their turf. I’m in it. My thoughts come twice as fast, and they all scream the same thing. Survive .

I am prey.

Strong ripples show me where they fell in and how fast the creatures are approaching. I dive, because I must do something, barely dragging myself out of the way of whatever is hunting me…

River sharks.

Fuck.

I stay low, flattening myself against the sand as they pass overhead.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Five river sharks.

Longer than me.

Stronger than me.

And I’m running out of air.