Bloodguard

chapter 64

Leith

I’m not given a moment to breathe before the arena erupts, demanding carnage.

I don’t know what I’m facing except the vampire colt. I can’t even be sure I’ll survive long enough to worry about it. If that stupid music stops and I don’t land in front of a crate, it’s over.

My mind wanders to Maeve. In the time we’ve spent alone, I’ve memorized her face, the way her eyes sparkle when she’s up to no good and her sweet smile when she is.

I can avenge my family today, but that is not my primary focus.

Today, I fight for Maeve. For us. For the future she gave me faith to believe in.

I crack my neck from side to side and walk to the perimeter of the circle to examine the weapons scattered in the sand. They weren’t here when I studied the arena earlier, no doubt placed—perhaps by the use of magic—during the reading of the rules.

A close-range weapon is the smartest choice. I find a dagger and slip it into my belt. No matter the situation, I can always use a dagger. I bypass a rusted helmet and a breastplate that would almost certainly take the rest of my prep time to put on. I almost walk past a partially buried sword, not wanting to waste the precious seconds it would take to dig up, but something stops me. The bit of crossguard sticking out from the sand appears old and dusty, but when I eventually wrench it free of the ground, I discover a pristine weapon, shining like a star beneath the sun.

A gasp spreads through the crowd as I raise it. Sunlight glints off the massive ruby secured to the hilt, and the crowd goes fucking wild . I can barely hear my own thoughts over the cacophony of screams let loose by the good people of Arrow.

I recognize the ostentatious weapon from a portrait back at the manor. This is Maeve’s grandfather’s sword—that of the original king—but how? She had no idea I would battle today.

I glance up to find her standing, eyes wide, hands over her mouth, looking as surprised as I am.

Sometimes confidences must be broken to protect those we love.

Two boxes over, Caelen, grinning, salutes me as Giselle bounces up and down waving vigorously at her sister. That answers that.

I have friends who care about me. My eyes sting when I look to where Maeve continues to stand—to where Soro glances from her to me. She’s smiling, but I think she’s crying, too. And if I didn’t know I fucking loved her before, I sure as hell would know now.

She wants me to live. And dammit, for her, I will.

I find the sheath that goes with the sword and secure both to my waist. I take another look at the scattered weapons and the crates. This sword is magnificent. But no way am I going to use it to cut through the crates or those damn locks.

I hurry around the ring, well aware I’m running out of time.

It’s not until I come across a familiar battle axe that I’m sure it was smart to wait. I lift it, wondering how I know this weapon. When I glance back at Maeve and see Soro gesturing wildly as he screams at her, his ever-present ogren generals conspicuously absent, I realize who this axe belongs to. My gaze flitters to Caelen and Giselle, who are looking damn well smug.

The horn blasts. I’m out of time.

The orchestra begins to play.

At first, the melody follows a standard rhythm that I can steadily jog to without much effort. Without warning, the tempo picks up. I’m not quite to the next crate when the music abruptly stops.

The audience screams.

The only thing that saves me is the force of my jump. I leap as rows of iron spears shoot upward from the space between the crates. The eruption is fierce, and I’m plowed with a blinding spray of sand.

As my vision clears, the spears retract, vanishing as if they’d never existed.

The degree of danger hits me hard.

Impaled. I was almost impaled .

I rise carefully and lift my discarded axe from the ground. I’ve reached the first crate. I press my ear against the door.

Nothing. Only silence. As I strategize, what sounds like an angry swarm of hornets buzzes from the ground.

Having been stunned into immobility by the spears, I expect actual hornets. I forgot about the creative efforts the engineers undertook to develop this torture chamber, and it almost costs me.

More out of instinct than skill, I skid out of the way of a spinning saw. The blade doubles back. It doesn’t traverse back and forth, side to side, or even zigzag. It doesn’t follow any pattern I can memorize. Instead, it travels as unpredictably as a fish in a large lake.

The diameter of the blade is about the same as a supper plate and the thickness comparable to a thin sheet of ice. It can tear up my feet and calves with ease. And if I fall, it will finish me off.

A second saw blade appears as the first continues on. I avoid it and the other when it returns. And as quickly as they appeared, they disappear beneath the sand.

The audience cheers, either for me, the saws, or the contents of the crate. It doesn’t matter. They all suck.

My need to survive heightens my reflexes. Fueled by rage, I lift the axe and bring its butt down in a straight line.

One.

Two.

Three locks break open from my single strike.

I kick open the door and sidestep left to avoid anything that might charge.

The time it takes me to break the locks and move aside is a matter of seconds. So is what happens next.

With the taste for war burning deep within me and my weapon in the air, I release a battle cry and prepare to attack, but I never get the chance to swing. The moment I see my opponent, I know I’m done for.

Wrapped in chains and wearing nothing but a burlap sack is Pega. Blood oozes from two large gashes on her head, staining her wild yellow hair orange.

Those bastards.

Those ruthless , conniving bastards.

To become a Bloodguard, they expect me to kill another gladiator.

A new kind of wrath envelops me, tightening my throat.

I don’t think things through. In fact, I do everything a gladiator who wants to be a Bloodguard shouldn’t do.

Instead of taking my opponent’s life, I offer it back. I tug at her chains—they’re knotted. Pega should have been able to get free, but her eyes open and close when they see me. “What did they do to you?” I ask.

“Drug,” she slurs. The injured side of her face is droopier, and she’s drooling. “Druuuug,” she says again, dragging out the word.

I undo the chains and slap her. When she doesn’t wake up, I slap her again. She startles this time and slaps the ever-loving shit out of me.

I fall backward and laugh. “Good girl,” I tell her. “Now, time to go.”

I glance behind me when that buzzing sound returns. The saws are back. “I’ll keep you safe,” I say. “You just need to keep moving. Understand?”

Pega nods slowly. I help her to stand, and that’s when I realize she’s holding on to her broken arm. “Shit,” I say.

“They wanted to get back at me for having nice things.” She mumbles something else, but I don’t catch it.

“It’s all right,” I say. “Let’s get out of here so you can have all the nice things you deserve.”

The buzzing vanishes. That doesn’t mean we’re safe. The rattles increase in the next crate, and the one I already passed rumbles with an escalating chorus of growls.

“Now or never,” I say.

She nods but is having a hard time staying focused. I all but drag her with me. The moment we step out of the crate, the music resumes. “If the music stops, you stop. Understand?”

Outcries from the crowd erupt all around us.

Pega’s eyes dart back and forth, and she sways. “Yeah,” she mumbles.

The music slows, and I have to hold her back when she starts to move faster. “Follow the rhythm, Pega,” I tell her. “If it’s fast, you go fast. If it slows, you do as well. Whatever you do, don’t leave the circle.”

I haul her out of the way when the saws puncture through the sand and charge. A third emerges, chasing the others.

How many of these things are there?

I check behind us. For now, it’s only these three.

Only? What am I thinking?

With Pega, it’s a fight to avoid the saws. Throw in that wretched music, and it’s all I can do to keep a level head.

Pega, as doped up as she is, does her best and permits me to lead. As the saws disappear, the music picks up. We bolt, her hand clutched tightly in mine.

If I can save her, I will. But to do so, I first need to save myself.

We race at high speed to match the orchestra as the crowd screams and cheers.

When the music slows, so do we, and Pega gasps for air. Whatever they gave her makes her barely fit to walk, much less run—yet she does her damnedest.

I speak as quickly as I can. “There’s something waiting in each crate. If you’re not with me, I can’t be sure it won’t go after you.” Still walking with Pega in time to the music, I glance up. “Can you climb the crates?” I ask.

She doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah.”

The tempo picks up again. We’re short on time.

“Can you leap from one to the other?” I ask.

She looks up at a crate as we pass, checking out the distance. “Yeah.”

I’m not so sure, but I keep that tidbit to myself.

“All right, Pega, listen,” I say. “The moment we stop in front of the next crate, climb it. Don’t wait for me to open it. When whatever resides emerges, leap to the next one.”

“There could be anything in there,” she mumbles.

“I know,” I agree.

Her words are getting easier to understand. After years as a seasoned gladiator, her metabolism seems to be burning through whatever they drugged her with fairly quickly. At least that’s my hope.

The music slows, taking up the familiar, slow melody that began my match. “The only way to win is to kill everything that attacks me until only one crate remains.”

I steal a glance in time to see her pupils dilate in and out. “I’ll make it if I’m on that last crate?” she asks.

“I don’t know, Pega,” I admit, trying to go over Ugeen’s rules in my head. I’m not confident in my assessment. “But that’s all we’ve got, and we have to try.”

Something that resembles hope fills her expression. “I trust you, Leith,” she says clearly.

I nod. Yeah. It’s all come down to trust.

“Ignore the music once you’re up there and stay low,” I instruct. “Only move if there’s no other choice.”

The music stops. Again, I narrowly miss being impaled, taking Pega with me. I pull her to her feet in less time than it takes the spears to withdraw.

“Climb, now,” I order.

I take in our surroundings. We passed Pega’s crate at least three times—no doubt an effort to tire us out. We are immediately to the right of it now, the vampire colt on its other side.

My plan isn’t perfect. I’m not sure we’ll make it. Still, Pega has hope, I have hope, and sometimes, that’s enough.

Pega reaches the top of the crate, and I’m readying myself to break the next set of locks when a streak of fire blazes in my peripheral vision and the crate Pega was in explodes.

We’re thrown so roughly and unexpectedly that my ogren axe flies from my hand. I land in a roll to protect my body, the hilt of the king’s sword striking me in the ribs. When I realize how far I rolled toward the edge of the red circle, I scramble away. The sand I kick in my haste strikes the red line, and a wall of fire erupts, the heat as unbearable as if I were tossed into the inferno myself. Well, that answers what happens if someone steps out of the circle.

The blast angers the beasts inside the crates. They roar, howl, and claw, except for the colt. She slams her hooves against the wood, neighing in that freakish way.

The noise rattles my senses. Has the melody resumed, or is the orchestra waiting to start? I stumble to where Pega lies on the sand just in front of the crate she was blown off of. Her face is deathly pale, and her broken arm is twisted in the wrong direction.

I press my back against the unopened crate and look toward where Soro waits. He leans one foot along the stone edge, and the other is planted on the floor of the royal box. His hands carry a bow, the servant beside him ready to light another flaming arrow at his command. His face is lit up in sheer childlike delight. He set fire to Pega’s crate.

Two guards are holding Maeve by the arms as Ugeen watches her. She curses and kicks and fights her way to Soro only to be hauled back to her seat. As it is, the flames are eating away at the crate and its surrounding space.

I ball my hands into fists so hard my knuckles crack. I glare at the door to my next adventure.

Slowly and deliberately, I turn my head in Pega’s direction. “Climb,” I say. “Now.”

My voice is no longer patient. It’s cold, it’s lethal, and it belongs to a man who needs to get shit done.

Pega attempts to scramble up with one arm, but she doesn’t get far.

I boost her up by her heel. I’m so frantic, I practically throw her to the top, muscular dwarf or not.

The colt shrieks out another whinny while long claws protrude through a damaged crate across the circle from me. At this pace, they won’t need me to break them free.

I need to keep going.

I don’t know what’s going to emerge from this crate in front of me. Whatever it is, it’s hissing. It will either crawl or slither out, then immediately target my throat.

Let it. I didn’t come this far to cower.