Bloodguard

chapter 45

Leith

The arena isn’t that far. Today, though, the ride there seems to take hours.

Once we arrive, Gunther hurries forward to take the reins. I don’t have to see him to know he’s beaming. The boy is always happy to see me. I look regardless, wanting to assure myself that no fresh wounds mar him.

“Bloodguard. Bloodguard!”

I squeeze his shoulder and ask Caelen to buy him a good meal. I shouldn’t invest so much in his well-being. There’s nothing I can do about it, not right now. And yet, whether I mean to or not, I’m bonded to this kid in mutual torment. He may be young, but like me, he’s known suffering. If I can help him, I have to. For both our sakes.

I’m going to talk to Maeve about approaching his family, if he really has one. There’s nothing he deserves more than a home with us and my sisters and mother. Dahlia will insist they become best friends. I smile despite myself, hoping Gunther will agree. They can play in the woods and just be children for once.

My boots hit the muddy ground as I dismount, and the guards pull me away before I can bid Caelen a proper farewell.

I glance back, but he’s already gone.

Instead of taking me around to the livestock entrance and leaving me in an iron cage under the audience seating like they have every day this week, they lead me toward the pens where the gladiators are held. It appears I will fight today.

I crack my neck from side to side. I stomp through the mud, kicking the muck back and onto the guards. “Beggin’ your pardon, great sirs. I really should be more careful.”

The guard in my line of fire curses and shoves me, then snarls when I keep my feet and shoves me again. We’re almost to the pens where the other gladiators await. I steel myself, wondering after all this time—and all Giselle and Maeve’s interventions—who’s still alive.

The stench of unwashed bodies and swine hits me hard. I’m spoiled by the aroma of the forest and gardens that surround the cottage. And it’s not only that. My belly is full, my wounds are healed, and I’ve had a full week of rest.

A large roach skitters along the boards between the pens. A gladiator snags it, shoving it into his mouth before another can insist he share it.

He’s not alone. A cyclops, his knees crooked from malnourishment, sifts through the mud, plucking kernels from pieces of half-eaten corn flung from the swine pens.

Shame weighs me down. I’ve returned in optimal condition—more bulk to my frame from good meals, more strength from training, and more endurance from the distances I’ve traveled while hunting for herbs and mushrooms in the forest with Maeve.

Another whiff of this ripe aroma knocks me across the nose. I try not to grimace. I haven’t wallowed in filth in a long time. I’m not judging them.

I still am them.

They will no doubt judge me. I’ll spare them the good stuff—the wardrobe full of new clothes and my daily showers beneath the falls with my princess—and hope that the good we’ve done for them is returned with neutrality at least.

“By all the glory,” Rye says. “It’s Leith.”

Murmurs erupt, spreading down to each pen. Gladiators I know pull against their restraints, trying to get a look at me as I pass. They’re arranged in a new pattern. It’s odd. There are too many unfamiliar faces intermixed with seasoned gladiators. The ones with the greatest number of wins are split far apart from one another.

“Oi,” Ned calls. “Oi. ’Ere I thought you was dead.”

The corners of my lips tug into a grin. It’s a strange feeling to miss them. It’s even stranger to hear warmth trickle through their surprise. My old barrack mates are happy to see me. Meatheads or not, we are one. It’s something I learned from Maeve: you don’t have to be blood to be family.

I pass Pega’s pen. Rye’s and Ioni’s, too. They look good. So good they’re almost unrecognizable. Their faces are clean and filled out, their stances solid. Before Maeve and her family, all we knew were injuries, illness, and pain.

After them, I don’t recognize anyone. In my absence, more have died and even more have come to take their places.

Angry faces greet me as the gate of a particularly nasty pen is pulled open. I’m pushed inside and almost collide with an old human man who spits at my feet. The move reminds me of Sullivan. This man is not impressed by new clothes and sturdy boots. He sees me as weak and glares. I glare in return. He hasn’t seen what I’ve seen despite his years. He has no idea the shit I’m capable of.

It becomes a mind game of sorts to see who looks away first. It’s always someone else.

Today, it’s me.

“Leith.”

I turn when a familiar voice calls my name from the back of the pen.

Luther.

The giant recovered and beat the odds. He’s shoved into a corner, waiting for his turn to go.

No one moves to allow me through.

Ah, yes, we’re back to this.

I shove anyone in my path aside, using my shoulders to jab them.

There’s no way I’m not talking to Luther.

I trudge over the muck, kicking aside rotting pieces of vegetables the newer gladiators lunge for.

Luther’s giant bottom lip tilts up. I return his grin.

“Still alive,” I say.

“Because you,” he admits.

His foot is twisted, the leg thinner and plenty scarred, but it holds his weight. And like he said, he’s still here.

Luther favors the damaged leg as he stands, but not so much that I’m not confident he’ll keep fighting and keep winning. As long as he can move, Luther’s better off than most.

“She good?” he asks.

“She’s amazing,” I admit.

I haven’t told them who “she” really is. They presume it was Giselle, and none of us told them otherwise.

Pega surely suspects, but she’s been loyal to her sponsor and to me.

“You good friend,” he says. “Today win. Then next. Then Blood…guard.”

“That’s the plan,” I say. I place my hand on his shoulder. With Sullivan gone, Luther and the others have become more than competition.

Luther keeps his voice low and his speech short, as always. “Saved me. Saved many.” He jerks his large chin in the direction of the other pens. I catch sight of Ned and Ioni trying to draw closer. The others are too far.

I kneel or at least try to. The shackles and crowded conditions make it almost impossible.

“What happened to the others?” I ask. “Most here are new.”

Luther shrugs. “Not have more…for all.”

They ran out of medicine is what he means.

Luther keeps his voice low and scoops up a large handful of mud. He throws it at those surrounding us who are straining to hear. They were pretending to speak to each other. But you can’t pretend around Luther. He’s smarter than that.

Most shuffle away. But two—the closest man and the one who got smeared with the most muck—lunge for Luther. He swats the first away with barely a flick of his wrist. The other, I kick in the knee, knocking him face-first into the mud. He’ll be all right if he’s not thrown in the arena right away. But if they pull him now, he won’t stand a chance.

I’m not trying to play the bastard, but if you come at me or mine, you need to come harder than that.

He’s lucky I only hurt his knee.

“Guards not happy,” Luther says. He mulls over how to form his words. “Plants…make us…better.”

“I know,” I agree. Maeve’s work is genius. The remedies are designed to treat not only injuries but underlying infections and even shore up older wounds.

Luther eyes me, knowing I’m holding back information.

“I wasn’t positive the remedies would save all of you,” I say. “I’m glad they did, and that all of you shared them when you didn’t have to.”

“No,” he says. “That you.”

Luther is right, and I don’t think I realized how right he is until now. Maeve’s first treatments were meant for me—to heal my injuries and keep me going. I never intended to let anyone else have them. But when I saw Luther and what Soro’s twisted games had done to him, I had to help. Just like Maeve helped me.

“Do the guards know what you did?” I ask.

Luther shakes his immense head. “No… Hid well,” he says. “Small.”

“They weren’t easy to find,” I interpret for him.

He nods, his small eyes moving left and right before he leans forward. “More?” he asks.

I lower myself as much as I can. To anyone who doesn’t know us, they might mistake us for whispering or possibly kissing. Doesn’t matter to me. Doesn’t matter to Luther, especially when I reach into my waistband and slide the envelope of fresh healing herbs into his new shirt.

“Bad today,” he says. “None come back yet.”

“Do you know what we will face in there?”

“Fire,” Luther replies. “Smell burning.”

Fire is what Maeve learned, too. Hell, I hope that doesn’t mean another fucking dragon.

My stomach sinks at the thought, but it’s how much I hate these treacherous royals that returns it to its place. “Luther,” I say. “What do you think about taking down Vitor and Soro?”

Maeve and I discussed this option should Vitor and the royal court try to deny her the throne. In truth, if we didn’t have an entire royal army to deal with, me and the gladiators would have done this long ago. Maybe all we need is a princess on our side. Maeve wants her Papa Andres free—we all do, even if he is guilty.

I still think there’s more to it.

If Vitor even tries to pull some shit like convincing the court to make him king, I will personally rip the crown from his cold, severed head. Enough is enough. Andres needs his freedom, and Maeve’s people deserve more. I’m not naive—we’re looking to take on a hostile and established regime. But seeing all the good that I can still have, I want others to have it, too.

Do we think we can manage on our own? Hell no. I’m not even sure we can escape these pens without a legion of guards raining down on us should word of an uprising get out too soon. But Luther is a fine place to start, and my fellow gladiators are a way to follow. We all fight. We’re all ruthless. We are exactly what my Maeve needs.

If the damn lords didn’t want an army of trained murderers after them, they shouldn’t have conspired to break our spirits.

And they sure as fuck shouldn’t have driven us to become Bloodguards.

Luther scrutinizes me. He seems on the verge of arguing. I have never argued with a giant. There’s no point. I enjoy my limbs and prefer them attached to my body.

I half expect him to swat me away like he did the other man, but I hope Luther will consider my words.

“Yes,” he says finally. “When?”

Fuck yeah. “I don’t know. We need to organize.”

He nods. “How many?”

“Two gladiators so far,” I say.

He tilts his head. “Then…four?”

“No. You and me are the two.”

Luther makes this odd choking sound. I think he’s swallowed something the wrong way until I realize he’s laughing. At me.

“Good start,” he says.

He turns his head as my voice drops even further. “Get a feel for some of the others. Start with those you saved with the remedies.”

“Yes,” Luther says.

We talk at least an hour more, and I think it must be getting a bit easier for him. I’m glad. I always knew Luther had more to say than his anatomy allows. When this is all over, I will learn the language of giants. Maybe. They have a strong connection to nature, and I’m not completely sold I’ll be able to speak “tree.”

Gladiators are pulled left and right. Like my friend said, no one comes back. By the three-hour mark, there’s enough room in each pen to easily move around.

The sun is high in the sky now, heating the stink around us. The body count weighs on me. Something truly wicked waits inside. Goody.

I stretch again. There’s nothing better to do, besides panic, and that shit never helped anyone. Luther does the same, anxiety showing even on him. There’s no guarantee he won’t betray me. And I can’t be certain someone won’t betray him. But change starts somewhere. This somewhere is in a pen reserved for swine.

Luther makes a motion to signal that a guard is approaching. It’s the only movement he makes.

The human guard strikes the metal gate with his sword, cutting three fingers off the fool dwarf who thought he could rest them there.

“Pretty boy,” the guard calls.

I’m not trying to be cocky, but I don’t think the guard is talking to the muddy bastard picking his nose.

The guard swings his sword from side to side, the possibility of my imminent death adding to his glee. “Let’s go,” he says to me. “Time to bleed.”