Page 40 of The Crimson Walls Of Algorath

Azriel tightened his hold, pressing the lycan’s head into his chest and heaving his arms up hard and fast. With the weight of the massive body holding Gray down and his grip lifting at his neck, the resounding crack told him he’d succeeded in snapping the wolf’s neck.

Just in time for Russet to barrel into him and clamp his jaws down on Azriel’s arm. He roared in pain, stumbling back, unable to rip his arm away. The lycan locked down harder, yanking back like a dog with a rope. Azriel tripped over Gray’s corpse and landed hard on his knees, losing sight of Silver as the third lycan stalked behind him.

Fuck.

All of the bloodthirsty cheers around them had long since faded into the background. No thoughts rolled through his mind other than the roaring pain and the frantic search for a way to get out of the situation. Every one of them returned to letting Russet tear his arm off, but that wasn’t a very good plan if he had any hope of getting out of Algorath alive.

Instead, he lifted himself onto his free hand and toes to drive himself forward. Russet, not anticipating the shift of momentum, stumbled back, jaws loosening just enough to rip his arm free. Azriel hurtled to the lycan’s side, ignoring the agony throbbing through his arm as he grabbed the foreleg. In a single, swift movement, he yanked it to the side and front-kicked Russet’s hips.

Another crack. Another shriek of pain. Another broken bone.

Screams of excitement from above slammed into him again as the third lycan finally joined the fray by leaping onto Azriel’s back. He fell to the ground as the new set of teeth mauled his shoulder.

His vision swam, the pain too shocking for his system. He gasped for breath, clinging to whatever scraps of consciousness he had left. It would be so easy to give in. To fall into the darkness beckoning to him and let the damned wolves eat him.

But there was too much to live for. Too much at stake if he didn’t win. Didn’t survive. Ariadne, not only hunted by Ehrun, would be a true widow, and Loren would imprison her through marriage. Madan would be left to fend for himself, no longer seen as the brother of the Dhemon Prince but as a liability in the war against vampires and dhemons alike.

So Azriel used Silver’s momentum to roll forward, taking the lycan with him. They landed in a heap, scrambling for the controlling position. Grappling with wolves was different than how he’d been trained all his life. Five centuries of battle never prepared him for facing off with such an opponent.

But they lived and died no differently than a dhemon, vampire, or mage.

Azriel slammed his fist into the side of Silver’s face, stunning the lycan long enough to tackle it back to the ground, where he sat all his weight on the thick, barreled chest. Silver snapped his massive jaws at him, and after a moment of timing it out, Azriel shoved both hands into his mouth.

Gripping the upper and lower jaws hard enough for the long teeth to dig into his hand, he jerked Silver’s mouth wide. Though the lycan resisted and Azriel’s ruined arm roared in protest, he felt the hinging point give. Silver screamed in pain, mouth hanging loose.

He didn’t hesitate. He couldn’t. The wolf writhed beneath him, and he held the huge body tight with his knees. Gripping each side of its head, he twisted hard.

Two broken necks. One lycan still alive.

Right on cue, Russet returned, limping around the broken leg. The lycan snarled and bared its fangs, hackles raised. Though it put on a fierce show, fear danced in its eyes. This should’ve been an easy fight for them. Three against one, the odds had been in their favor.

What had kept Azriel upright throughout it all went beyond the fear of death. He knew who he’d be leaving behind, and that was not an option. Not anymore. Not like when he’d put the rope around his neck all those months ago.

He needed to live.

He advanced on Russet, every movement one of agony with his arm and shoulder nearly useless. He’d never thought to ask anyone if a healer would be brought in after the fights. Worse still, he’d need blood after this. And Ariadne wouldn’t be there to provide this time around.

He eyed the final wolf and its mane of thick fur around its neck. There was a purpose to all that hair: to prevent teeth like his from getting through. Not that he wanted a mouthful of lycan fur anyway.

Yet as he now stalked forward, his head swam. Too much blood loss. Too much pain. A mangled back courtesy of Loren had been one thing. Almost having a limb torn off was completely different. At least after the lashing, he hadn’t been expected to move.

Russet backed away as Azriel stalked forward. The lycan knew it would die. He had no other choice. The only way out of that pit was by stepping on the bodies of the dead.

At last, Russet shifted directions, snapping at his legs. Azriel brought his knee up, connecting with the lycan’s maw and slamming his fist into the side of its head. It stumbled to the side from the impact, opening its uninjured side to him. He kicked out hard in front of him, another crack confirming the broken ribs as the wolf yelped.

Azriel advanced again, and this time, the lycan backed up. Above them, spectators screamed for more blood. More death. More pain. Killing had never been a sport to him but a necessary part of war.

Until those dhemons threatened Ariadne.

He shook her from his mind and grabbed Russet by the scruff, hauling the lycan back to him. Russet shrieked and flailed again, front paws rising from the ground just as Gray’s had. Gods, he could smell the blood around him. His mouth watered, and he contemplated draining the wolf again.

Instead, he grabbed Russet’s head and hissed through gritted teeth, “I’m so sorry,” and broke the third lycan’s neck.

The body landed with a thud in the dirt. Azriel stumbled back to survey his wreckage and swayed. He blinked as his chest heaved, looked up at the spectators cheering his name—the Crowe—and shook his head in disgust.

Then, the darkness claimed him.

Chapter 10

---