Bloodguard

chapter 49

Leith

The guards manhandle me all the way to the arena entrance. It’s bad enough that every gladiator before me damn well died, but everything in the arena today feels, well, different .

The horn blasts, and the chanting begins. “Bloodguard. Bloodguard! ”

I’m thrown into the sand, tripping over the first of at least twenty dead gladiators.

The gates come crashing down. The severed hands of the body I tripped over are still gripping the bars.

Two possibilities occur to me as I rise. Neither of them is particularly cheery.

One: A large group of gladiators were all pitted against one another, as Sullivan and I were.

Or two: They were, indeed, thrown in one at a time, and whatever their opponent was killed them so fast they were replaced as quickly as they fell.

Deathly pale faces are all that greet me as I look to the stands. There are those whose partners are fanning them, trying to revive them, and more who are pouring goblets of water over their faces to wake them.

Even more are too frightened to move.

I step over the handless body and walk toward that of a young giant larger than Luther, but one who never learned to fight. He probably thought his strength would be enough.

It wasn’t.

His open ribcage, absent a liver and one of the four kidneys giants have, tells me who was stronger.

Throughout the arena, the bodies lie almost in a row. They weren’t arranged this way. The pattern isn’t neat enough. There’s also no clear cause of death.

The only thing they have in common is that they were all running toward the exit.

Nice.

Real. Damn. Nice .

They should have done me the favor of killing it, them, or whatever the hell I’m up against.

A dagger lies beside a dwarf whose smoking asshole was made larger than his head.

I pocket the dagger, not wanting to dwell too much on that. There are enough nightmares ahead to keep me awake for the next year.

There’s another giant, this one smaller than Luther. Likely younger, given he’s only as tall as me.

Oh, and look at this. He’s holding part of his brain. He must have caught it as it launched from his eye sockets.

The eyeballs lie staring at the gladiator who has his foot rammed into his mouth. Another gladiator might have fed him the severed foot to silence his screaming. He must have choked on it. Considering how the others died, this was the best way to go.

There’s a boomerang blade tossed beside him, and I know it’s Maeve’s doing. Though it’s not my own blade, no guard in Arrow would think to include a Siertosian weapon like this. A piece of my culture in this twisted hellscape that poisons their own. I focus on the genius of its design. It’s better than allowing my stomach to fall at my feet, like that poor bastard cyclops who was strangled with his own intestines. I’m trying not to be obvious as I search each row of the royal box. Maeve… She isn’t here. I turn around, pretending to stretch, but there’s no sign of her.

Look at the weapon. Look at the weapon. Damn it, look at the fucking weapon.

A week or so ago, when I was using the one she bought me to help her collect medicinal ingredients in the forest, I told Maeve how my mother taught me to use a boomerang blade. It was the same one her father used to bring down birds to eat. She spent weeks teaching me the right way to throw it. I’d toss it over and over, practicing with each hand until the muscles on my arms and shoulders threatened to tear.

Once I mastered the motion, it would smoothly return to land by my feet. Then the hard part began. I spent over a year learning not only how to strike my target but to catch it upon its return. It was tedious and frightening and so worth it. It was also a way to catch food, until the birds were smart enough to abandon Grey.

I toss the boomerang in the air with the confidence my mother insisted I demonstrate. It is larger than any I’ve used before but weighted perfectly, so I should have no problem adjusting to its size. When all my fingers remain attached, my confidence grows, as well as the enthusiasm of the crowd. Thank the moon that muscle memory is a real thing. And while I still can’t find Maeve, I feel her with me in this weapon.

It should help me today.

Unless I end up like that troll over there.

And there.

And there.

I swallow hard.

He didn’t need that spleen, anyway.

Panic should have set in. I’m halfway across the arena and armed to the teeth, having tucked three daggers into my waistband, two broken spears under my arm, a sword into one hand, and my trusty boomerang in the other. It’s only because I’m allowed to take weapons from the fallen that I have this much.

A banging sound reverberates from the other end of the arena. The warning of impending danger causes several royals to faint and even more to clutch each other.

I stash the sword upright in the sand, remembering I was warned not to engage my opponent directly, and ready for one hell of a fight. A creak averts my gaze from the opposite end and to a concrete door I’d noticed but never seen used. It’s part of the arena wall. It opens with a deep, thudded crack followed by a hideous snarl.

Within the darkness, white-hot flames ignite six hundred pounds of bovine muscle.

Oh fuck.

I run before the fire bull can charge. It’s not to escape. There’s no escaping these creatures who trample their food and then hold their shrieking bodies down so they can burn them alive and enjoy a homecooked meal. And let’s not forget the ones they kill for pleasure.

The distance I create is long enough to pivot and toss my first spear. It nails the racing bovine in the chest.

Its hellish speed works against it. It trips over itself, driving the broken spear deep enough to puncture a lung. It rolls out of the way from another fire bull that appears, crashing against the wall and kicking up sand as it slowly dies.

The next fire bull is faster and smarter than I prefer my opponents. It closes in on me, weaving from side to side, easily avoiding the next broken spear I toss, plus another I come across.

When only yards remain between us, I lift my blade and run toward it, and, yes, another fire bull appears. I’d prefer to kill my enemies from afar, but they have other plans. My legs and arms pump as I accelerate. They mean to impale me as they did that poor sap who met them ass-first.

I slide between the legs of the one who reaches me first, its large body providing me the space I need to lift my spear and cut its underbelly. The flames encasing it flicker out as I roll away. That kill was surprisingly easy. Too easy for the chunks of gladiators who remain.

The final fire bull is smaller but more muscular and the fastest yet. I hop onto my feet, cursing when I realize that my haste to get out from under the other fire bull cost me a dagger that slipped from my waistband. But two still remain.

I barely have my balance when the fire bull slides to a stop and then doubles back. The quick turn slows it just enough for me to jerk to the side and bring my boomerang blade down on its snout.

The shock of pain impedes the fire bull’s natural ability to maintain its flame. The dwindling heat is enough to singe my skin but not enough to burn me alive.

It jerks its head back and forth, shoving me to the side and trapping me against the wall as it tries to fling the blade embedded into its face.

I feel every bit of its heavy, jerky movements. I dig my heels into the sand and push, scrambling free as I wrench my blade from its snout. With a tight grip on the handle—a short piece of leather connecting the two blades on either side—I bring it down hard into the fire bull’s skull, shattering the dense bone and piercing its brain.

When it collapses, I raise my weak arms, expecting only thunderous applause.

A youngling dwarf who accompanies his parents yells, “Yay!” His parents don’t notice him, continuing to clutch each other in fear.

Other than some less-than-heartfelt claps, there’s nothing.

It’s eerily quiet. And that was far too easy.

Until a metal-on-metal grinding sounds from across the arena.

The gate opens just enough for a humanoid head to peek through.

The creature’s head is bald and its attention everywhere, glancing around and breathing through its mouth. A wave of visceral disgust washes over me. This creature is wrong .

Screeches and screams from the crowd immediately begin. I think I hear Maeve, but I don’t dare look this time. No. This freak will require my undivided attention.

My shock is the only thing that silences the collective cursing my insides are doing as my opponent pushes its way into the arena.

Dark-green scales cover everything save its face. Four strong limbs armed with beast-like claws stained red with my predecessors’ blood protrude one at a time. It stands, shaking out its body as its wobbly head bounces faster.

This… thing crouches and stretches, creepy gaze mesmerized by its surroundings, as if it wasn’t responsible for the carnage in the first place. As absently as I would scrape mud from my boot, the creature lifts the head of a nearby human, cracks it open like an egg, and slurps down the brain.

It tosses the body aside when it finishes.

And reaches for a troll’s…

Never mind.

I almost miss the parents of the youngling dwarf covering his eyes and hauling him away.

This…this thing thrown into the arena with me is unnatural and not a part of Old Erth. The others didn’t stand a fucking chance. I’m not sure I do, either.

Whoever conjured this freak had a shit-ton of time and a twisted imagination.

Another gate creaks open, and a wizard with sparkling gold robes steps through. The aroma he carries is that of burning silkweed, the same malevolent magic said to emanate from hell itself.

Oh, shit.

The wizard’s broad features are all business and his snow-white sclera absent of irises. “Au men. Au men,” he says, lengthening each syllable.

“Aumen” snaps its neck in its master’s direction.

Slowly, and as disturbingly as the rest of him, Aumen looks away from the wizard and sets its bobbing head and rolling eyes on me.

I’m used to these assholes scouring all of Old Erth to secure deadly opponents. I never imagined an opponent like this. This thing was born of evil. It’s not just its freakish body—it’s the awkward motions, as if it’s only now learning to use its limbs.

Maybe it’s partly human. But as it rushes toward me, its head bobbles back, its mouth splits open across the length of his face, and it exposes needle-thin fangs. Any sympathy I had vanishes like that last bit of brain stuck to its incisor.

The beast strikes in a cobra-like motion, spitting what appears to be shards or fangs. I use my boomerang to bat them away and charge, swiping my sword out of the sand as I pass.

Again, it spits. This time, I can’t block them all. Like darts, some embed in my stomach. I throw my sword out, hollering in anger and pain when the fangs twitch and burrow farther into my skin. Still, I run.

If it wasn’t for my death grip on the hilt of the sword and the force of my weight lurching forward, Aumen would have gutted me with its claws.

Instead, it peers down, examining my sword protruding from its sternum. It lifts its bobbling head and hisses, spitting more needles. They pierce through my cheek and would have punctured my eye if I hadn’t jerked my head to the side.

I push the sword deeper.

It doesn’t respond in pain. Again, it bobbles, more fascinated with my weapon than it is with me. Did no one else get close enough to injure it?

As I use my weight to push, I realize its ghastly head was sewn on.

“Au-men,” the wizard calls to it. “Au-men.”

The word is foreign to me, more of a sound. Yet within it is power.

I drag my sword downward, gagging when Aumen’s abdomen opens.

There are no visible organs. I wish there were and that I had somehow struck the creature down. Instead, a pouch like that of a marsupial flips inside out, revealing a mouth that punches forward and sinks its fangs into my abdomen.

I don’t scream or cry out.

Some things are too painful for such marginal reactions.

My head falls back, my wide eyes burning beneath the merciless sun. Something else rakes at my skin. There’s a tearing sound followed by the painful pricks of needles burying into my torso. Aumen screams like a tortured man, but so, so much worse. Even in my half-delirious state, every hair on my body stands on end.

There are shrieks. There are racing footsteps. There is violent retching and the crash of flopping bodies.

Spectators are yelling, fainting, fleeing, and hurling.

Spectators who are nowhere near this thing trying to kill me.

I sway in place, my grip falling from my sword and my spine bowing backward. The wizard deepens his chanting lustfully, certain another death is within his reach.

Somehow, the fear of death sharpens my senses.

Only years of practice help my aim. My boomerang blade strikes the wizard in the skull. He collapses.

No time to scream.

Less time to run.

The moment from when I’m bitten to when the wizard falls lasts mere seconds.

Seconds of agony I never want to feel again.

Aumen drops me. It scuttles away in awkward motions and…eats its master. Without its maker in control, I suppose it saw “daddy” as fresh meat.

If hysteria hadn’t spread across the crowd before, it does now and then some.

My feet move slowly at first. Damn. The wizard thought he was in control, and he was, until his blood was too much for Aumen to resist.

My head reminds me we don’t want to be the next thing it decides to eat.

Loud slurping sounds reverberate through the coliseum as Aumen devours its maker’s corpse.

My goal is to strike when it’s preoccupied. Except it hears me approach.

It spins and hisses, cutting my skin with more needle-fangs. I don’t stop and drive a dagger into its throat. It barely notices.

The way my sword remains lodged, completely unmoving in its chest, explains why I couldn’t kill it the first time. There aren’t mere ribs protecting its heart. I should have guessed. Nothing of Aumen is like it should be.

A large, flat plate of bone protects Aumen’s vulnerable organs like a shield. And my sword is stuck in it.

Once more, my rage becomes my ally, joining the strength I’ve built over my time with Maeve. With a roar, I use my sword to lift the monstrosity over my head, my arms shaking violently as I use Aumen’s body weight against it. There’s a crack as the hard plate shatters and my blade slides into its vital organs. Its limbs twitch in agony, but I can’t bring myself to give a shit about its pain. Not with the corpses of my peers littered around us.

My back bows, and I lose my grip on the sword as the creature falls behind me. It lands hard, limbs scratching at the ground. I leap and ram my fist into the hilt of my sword.

The excited cries from the crowd are muffled. I take my remaining dagger and stab the mouth on its stomach when it tries to open again. With the last ounce of my strength, I wrench my sword free and slice open its jugular. I continue to saw into its throat until its head rolls clean off and I’m bathed in blood.

I don’t stop, taking my blade and striking every part of Aumen’s body I can reach.

I continue my strikes long after it’s dead. The audience chants, celebrating not my victory but Aumen’s defeat.

The monster they feared is dead.

My weapon slips from my slick hands, soaked with Aumen’s insides and pungent with the reek of malevolent magic. And still I fight, punching and kicking its crumpled form.

From the exit, I hear Gunther’s “Bloodguard. Bloodguard. Bloodguard!” chants.

I step away from the creature and almost trip on some random torso. I did it. I damn well did it. I lived. And I avenged. As I stumble forward, I begin yanking needles from my skin. Some don’t give me much trouble. Others, Maeve’s going to have to help me with later. I look around, trying to spot her or Jakeb, Giselle, and Caelen… Where the hell are they?

Trumpets blare, and the audience—those who remain conscious—is on their feet.

But I don’t care about them.

Where are my people? I heard Maeve, but I never saw her. She wouldn’t just leave without acknowledging me somehow. Maybe she thinks I’m dying and ran off to prepare a medicinal bath.

Another round of trumpets sounds, proclaiming Vitor has something to say. That’s glorious. Fine. Say it. The sooner he’s done singing his own praises, the sooner Maeve and I can get back home.

But he doesn’t stand. Ugeen, that bald dimwit, does instead, his robes of gold paling him further.

A young pageboy runs forward, hanging on to his floppy red hat with a wide brim. “All rise for Lord Ugeen,” he says in a small voice.

It takes more than a moment for everyone to get to their feet. The royals clap within their ring. Others from the Commons and Middling follow but not many. Regardless, Ugeen smiles with his hands in the air as if he won the damn fight.

“My, what a feat. What a feat indeed, young gladiator!” He’s clapping, but who the hell is he kidding? Asshole is probably clapping for himself.

His voice booms across the arena, his hands rising once more.

“It’s time to celebrate, friends, not only in praise of our distinguished gladiator’s monumental accomplishment but in celebration of a royal wedding.”

Bloody hell. He’s here to announce his engagement? Can’t this prick see he lost half his audience by bringing that fucked-up crime against nature into the arena?

“Shall we meet her?” he asks no one in particular. Some clap lightly, still disturbed by Aumen and my fight. But everyone turns to see the lucky royal dumbass who will end up with another dumbass.

“See them, revere them, and praise them,” Ugeen shouts, attempting to rile an audience he’s losing. “Behold. Arrow’s future king and queen!”

Ugeen lifts a crown from a velvet pillow.

My breath freezes in my lungs. I don’t know what’s real or not, unable to believe what my eyes are showing me.

No… Not… No!

Maeve, my Maeve , steps out wearing a bejeweled gold dress, her face hidden behind a veil. But it is her. I’d know her anywhere.

She’s led to Soro’s side.

He kisses her hand.

She curtsies to him.

Along the stands, some continue to clap. Others go still, the mix of confusion, resentment, and surprise keeping them silent.

Strong limbs band my arms to my side. The force required to keep me in place makes the soldiers grunt and tremble.

Ugeen lifts a rope of braided gold, blue, and green ribbon between Soro and Maeve.

“Soro of Revlis,” he says, “beloved son of Vitor of Revlis, High Lord and General, Fist of the Law, Champion of Arrow, Ultimate Victor, and God of War, will marry Maeve of Iamond, Healer of Ails, Princess of Arrow and granddaughter of Avianna of Iamond, Finest Queen of Arrow, the Ultimate Sword of Justice, the Wisdom of One Thousand Truths, and Mother of Righteousness, on the day of her twenty-first year.”

It feels as though Ugeen’s animated words rip the flesh from my ears in bone-rattling pain with each syllable, singeing them into the remains so with every thrum of my pulse, the words reverberate and scald me.

Soro regards her with startling determination and unmitigated triumph.

Maeve turns to face me as Ugeen binds the end of the braided rope to Soro’s wrist. I can’t read her expression. That veil keeps it hidden.

It feels like daggers ablaze with fire puncture my organs and pin them to my bones. “No…” I say.

Ugeen rocks back and forth on his feet in delight. He lifts Maeve’s hand, binding it to Soro.

“The promise is made!” Soro bellows, a sick grin spreading across his face. Though his words are addressed to the crowd, he stares directly at me. “And you’re all invited to celebrate.”

Maeve’s free hand shakes—no, motions in a way that tells me not to do anything.

And she thinks I’ll actually follow it!

“What’s this shit?” I demand.

Ugeen regards me, stunned, if not offended. “What?” he asks.

“I asked you what the hell this shit is ,” I repeat a lot less nicely.

Ugeen fancies himself one of those proper lords. And proper lords don’t appreciate being yelled at. “Settle down, gladiator,” he says, more offended by my tone than my intent. “The woman is free to make her own choices, no? Unlike your family, Maeve of House Iamond is not dead.”

The arena vanishes in an explosion of blurring sound. As it settles, there’s only silence, even as pain shoots through me as if my muscles are tearing from my bones piece by torturous piece.

“You…you murdered my family ?”

Ugeen is affronted. “Nonsense. They’ve been dead for years.” He looks at Maeve. “He didn’t know?” he asks her.

I break free of the arms holding me. Sand and chunks of flesh press beneath my feet. I’m running forward, I think.

Maeve just stands there, holding her hand out, trying to tell me to stop. As if I ever could.

Except right now it feels possible. Necessary, even.

I have to get away.

Her free arm clutches Soro’s—her fiancé. Her future fucking king!

Someone jumps into the arena, running up on me. Caelen, urging me to leave the arena with him, telling me they’ll kill me if I stay.

But I’m already dead. This nightmare—the reason I signed up for this shit in the first place—ends with my family dead . Giselle’s next to me, her voice begging me to listen, saying we must leave, telling me something about Jakeb, Neela, and the manor.

The royal guards are approaching. That’s what Caelen says.

I shove him aside like it’s nothing.

I suppose it’s not.

Compared to losing my entire fucking family!

“They’re dead,” I say.

Giselle’s voice splinters. “I-I’m sorry.”

And Maeve knew. She knew and she didn’t tell me. How could she not tell me?

The arena suddenly clears, and noise destroys my ears. The guards charge. I do, too.

There’s no reason left to live.

But there are plenty of reasons to die.