Bloodguard

chapter 63

Leith

My gloves and boots are leather, my pants and shirt black, as I prefer. I’m here to fight on my terms. I’m here for the title, because so help me, I owe Maeve as much.

As the crowd settles, Soro raises his arms, his voice booming for what I intend to be the last time.

“Gladiator,” he calls.

I raise my arms, too. “What?”

That earns a few bouts of laughter he doesn’t appreciate. Maeve takes turns looking from him to me. She’s scared for me, but I’m more scared for her. That asshole still has her for now. Fortunately, I will kill him, no matter the cost.

Soro tries again. “It’s time for the real games to begin.”

“Do your worst, you sadistic fuck of a wannabe king.”

The crowd goes wild at my proclamation. Bet takers are flipping through their notes and looking around helplessly as they’re overrun with orders.

Like it or not, Soro has no choice but to let me fight. The masses assembled would tolerate nothing less.

He acknowledges me with a regal wave of his hand, and the red-and-purple banners designated to me are hoisted.

I watch them rise, and in moments, odds are posted.

It is very, very clear that Soro does not expect me to win.

Maeve wrings her hands. She did everything in her power to keep me out of this very arena. And yet, here I am.

With a motion of Soro’s chin, a full woodwind orchestra takes over. Its music drenches the arena, the notes of a melody I know from my youth vibrating against the stone walls.

“My people!” Soro projects his voice with that magic the royal box permits, and the arena goes quiet. “Today will be a fine event—one worthy of celebrating your future king and queen!”

Cheers rise again, albeit less enthusiastically.

Soro has inflicted so much fear of retaliation among his people that no one is certain how to respond to him.

“Place your bets here,” a young dwarf calls out.

A band of sprites zips up and down the rows. “Ale? Some ale to quench your thirst,” they call out in unison.

It’s some time before the arena is prepared. The betting takes place as musicians play and performers dance around the periphery of the stands.

And then, the drums toll the onset of my match.

Boom, boom, boom…

I take everything in as I stride toward the center in time with the drums. There’s something different about the arena today, something less obvious than the circle of crates fanning out from its middle. I can’t put my finger on it, but the dynamics are off somehow.

Everyone is on their feet as the music switches to a faster tempo. The closer I am to reaching the center, the more the already hyped-up audience loses their collective shit. Some grab at one another and point in my direction. Even more shove each other aside for a better look. Royals dripping with jewels motion hurriedly to place more coin.

“Bloodguard! Bloodguard! ” they chant.

A red-painted circle takes up a large part of the arena’s center. Eight large wooden boxes have been placed at equal intervals within it. The crates are all closed, solid, and large enough to fit four Luthers comfortably. Three large padlocks line one side of each to secure the contents. Some boxes rattle and shake. Others with more vocal occupants hiss or snarl or claw at the wood. One is shredded from the inside on multiple sides. Whatever is in there wants out. And soon.

I stride confidently into the red circle, knowing this match won’t begin until I stand where the sicko gamemaster intended. The nearest crate teeters back and forth with growing vigor, each tip preceded by a harsh strike. From within, a crazed laugh bursts forth, making every hair on the back of my neck stand on end.

My eyes widen. No. Not that .

The disturbing, high-pitched laugh echoes again as the walls are struck from within. With the next blow, the crate almost topples over.

Only one animal makes that sound, and it’s one animal I never wanted to see again.

Inside that box is a vampire colt. Sickly gray and somehow beautiful, their white manes hang over fire-red eyes. Their thin, sharp tails can kill with one deliberate whip. If you’re unlucky enough to encounter one, you’re lucky as hell if it’s the tail that kills you.

Bony protrusions poke out from either side of their necks. Designed to protect the colt’s jugular vein and carotid artery, they are two features among many that make them hard to kill.

Immense despite their name, carnivorous unlike their cousin the moon horse, and armed with short spikes that project and retract from each hoof at will, these are among Old Erth’s greatest nightmares.

These creatures don’t eat their prey. They mutilate it. They hunt larger animals, and they win. And instead of killing what they catch, they use the spikes on their hooves to shred the body alive.

As their prey squirts hot blood, they slurp with their long tongues until the body is dried.

Their victims die crying, begging, or screaming—usually a combination of all three—maniacal laughter the last sound they hear. Well, maybe it’s wrong to say that. In all fairness, they’re not really laughing. That’s just their deeply disturbing whinny.

Most are female. Males only appear to mate and are devoured by the females the moment they dismount.

Damn it, why can’t I face cave boas or wraithions? Even giant leeches would be preferable to this .

It’s best not to focus on that, so I don’t, my attention falling to the ground. That’s when it hits me. It’s the arena floor that’s different.

That sickly brown color from years of blood soaking through the sand is gone. But more than that, the sand lies and feels different, too. It’s groomed flat with a pattern to it, starting from the crates and radiating inward toward the center of the circle.

The ground feels deeper than before, my feet sinking slightly with every step. What else? My attention drops to the grooves in the sand, searching for anything I can use to my advantage. The harsh sunlight makes it difficult to see, but what I do make out is significant.

Between the crates, thick lines stretch to the perimeter of the circle. They’re hiding something down there to use against me. It’s why they needed more sand.

I look up to Maeve in the stands and flash her a wink. I don’t want her scared, even though I can see the fear in her taut features from here.

But fear aside, if I win, I’m going to bring this whole establishment down.

I came here of my own free will. There will be no help today. No collusion with Maeve ahead of time to assist me. No hints or warnings. Today, I’ll rise or fall by my own merit, and the thought strengthens me.

I cannot fail. I must win.

For myself.

For Maeve.

For Arrow.

I think of the gladiators in the barracks, the poor people in parts of this city who suffer because of Soro and the abusive royals who serve him.

It’s time for change.

And that change begins with me.

A smile as slick as poison cuts across Soro’s face as the music changes tempo. The lord behind him—Ugeen, I think—is dressed head-to-toe in pink, his bald head providing the finishing touch on his dick costume. He clears his throat and takes over speech duty. Soro leans forward in his seat as if he can’t wait to see what happens next.

The underling begins, his voice as loud as Soro’s, puffed-up chest suggesting a twisted sense of pride in his role in today’s proceedings. “The Bloodguard match today is unlike anything Old Erth has ever seen. Created specifically for this ultimate battle and engineered by the best in the land, this is a test of power, agility, and wit.” He smiles and puffs himself up even further, feigning importance beyond his station. “In each crate, a different opponent awaits. Will the gladiator win or fall?”

“Fall!” the crowd in the Noble Ring shouts. They cheer as if I’m not standing right here. To them, I’m merely an insect to dispose of, incapable of escaping a spider’s web. But the spider is just another pest—like Soro—that I’m more than capable of squashing.

The lord shifts his weight. The crowd ceases their chatter, permitting him to speak. “The entirety of this match will take place within the red ring at the center of our arena. Once the match begins, the gladiator will not survive any attempts to leave it. He will circle the inner perimeter, moving to the speed of the music.”

This really is a sick fucking game to them.

The sunbeams stretching across the light-blue sky have intensified, heating the sand at my feet. Sweat dribbles down Ugeen’s forehead. “When the music stops, the gladiator must also stop. Whichever crate he stands before is the one he’s to open and face the contents of. The gladiator may not stop in front of a previously opened crate or an empty space. It’s only during combat that the gladiator has free rein in the circle and the musical requirement does not apply. Some will be easy kills…” He clears his throat. “Others will not. The decision falls to the gladiator. Choose life as a victor or death in disgrace.”

Stop in front of crate, open crate, kill contents of crate. Not too complicated.

Soro grins like a spoiled child, as if the contents of these crates were a gift to him personally.

“Should the music stop while the gladiator remains between crates, he’ll die a miserable death and maggots will feast on his flesh.”

What the hell is this shit?

“You may fell your enemies in whichever order you desire”—Ugeen glares down at me now—“and as befits the generosity of our revered kingdom, the gladiator may choose whether or not to engage the opponent or opponents within his final crate.”

So, if I play this right, I won’t have to fight the vampire colt. I don’t know what else is in each of those crates, though. There could be something more dangerous—unlikely but possible.

This small mercy is far too suspicious for comfort, but I’ll have to take that chance. Gladiator or not, I can’t kill a vampire colt alone.

Ugeen lowers the scroll, his dick tip of a head now drenched with sweat. He wipes his brow with his sleeve and continues. “To exemplify the genius of our cherished engineers and to test the gladiator’s endurance, spinning saws will break through the sand at random.” He sniffs. “As always, best of luck to our gladiator.”

Spinning saws will break through at random?

Anger burns a hole through my chest. This isn’t a match.

It’s a death sentence.