Page 173 of Bloodguard

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 therealgames to begin.”

“Do your worst, you sadisticfuckof 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. Notthat.

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.

---