Page 13 of Bloodguard

The familiar sound of wheels bumping across the cobblestones pulls my attention toward the stable entrance.

After my fight, a human guard told me someone wanted to speak to me and not to return to the barracks yet. It’s likely a noble who wants me to wash his hunting dogs, chop his firewood, or some other shit they’re too good to do. The pay for tasks like that is almost as piddling as what we get for winning, but even one coin is one more to help my little sister.

Yet, when I glance at the open gates, I see it’s just another wagon full of gladiators, fresh from their presentation to the royal box. Looks like they will be going out as usual in pairs, no free-for-all this time.

I wonder if my win took the High Lord down a notch, and now they’re having to slow the matches to cover the House’s losses. I can only hope.

The wagon jostles as the other fighters hop off. Most are humans, dwarves, and elves, but one person I recognize is Luther, a giant.

His throat bubbles with boils like those that covered Sullivan, and he grimaces when he scratches them. Fresh blood and pus trickle down his neck, adding to the dry streaks painting his vest.

The guards ease away from the giant. They don’t know what disease he has—they only know they don’t want it. They also don’t want to piss him off. Everyone knows Luther killed a bull with his bare hands during his first fight. It was a similar transgression to feed his family that got him imprisoned and thrown into the games in the first place.

As I watch, the group of gladiators is led in the direction of the pens. This is how the matches usually go: each gladiator is thrown into the arena only two or three at a time. Luther should make it. Although it’s hard to tell sometimes, and I’ve been wrong before.

The stable boy returns to offer me a bucket of water, and I put it to my mouth, drinking hard. The rest, I pour over my head. It’s only enough to refresh me, not fully wash Sullivan’s blood from my hands.

My eyes remain on the gladiators as they pass. I make a show of stretching my muscles so the nearby guards don’t cause a fuss. We’re not supposed to speak to those in line to fight, but I’m damn well speaking to Luther. I start moving toward him, past the row of stalls.

Luther is small for a giant, maybe nine feet tall and half as wide. He walks from side to side on short, tree-trunk legs. Like most giants, the dense musculature of his chest and arms, along with the weight of his large head, bows his hips outward.

I’m almost to the end of the stable when Luther’s small brown eyes shift to mine. I press my boot against a wooden plank, pretending to tie the torn laces.

“Where they?” Luther asks. Protruding jaws often make it hard for giants to speak human languages, so they keep their sentences short.

He means the group I arrived with. “They threw us all in together,” I spit through my teeth.

“All?” he repeats.

The men closest to us crane their necks in our direction. “Oi.Oi!” Ned, an elf, yells ahead. “They just threw everyone in.”

The commotion draws the attention of the guards, who stare at Luther and me but don’t draw their weapons. The gladiators in the holding pens start to quiet at the realization that they, too, could have been in the group fight, except for some lucky reason the wagon they came in on was spared.

I glance at the tattoo on my arm. None in this lot bear one. Maybe killing them off quickly is less of a priority.

More likely, they intended everyone in my match to die. This wagon would’ve comprised round two and had very different odds.

The House always wins, but that doesn’t stop the people of Arrow from trying to improve their station. I get it. I was gambling, too, when I signed on to become a Bloodguard.

Drool pools on Luther’s bottom lip as he forms his next word. “Sullivan?” he asks.

Long words are hard for him, so the fact he gets a multisyllabic name out shows how important the question is to him.

Hearing Sullivan’s name beats up what’s left of my insides. I shake my head. There’s nothing more to say.

Luther bows his head, his heavy and scruffy brow burying his beady eyes. He’s grieving for Sullivan. It’s brief, but it’s there.

More guards arrive. I give Luther my back then. I may want to rage for Sullivan, but that rage can’t help him now.

I look to the entrance again, wondering about my mystery visitor. I wish he’d hurry it up so I can get on with my day or, at the very least, leave this foul place.

Instead, a small voice catches my attention.

“I want to be you when it’s my time.”

It’s the stable boy again. There are deep-set scars branching across his bald head, fresh pink injuries in addition to older ones. The poor kid has been beaten for years.

He backs away when he catches my scowl. I want to scream at him, tell him he’s a fool for desiring any part of the gladiator life. But I’m the fool for signing up. And this kid’s been through enough violence. He doesn’t need me yelling at him, too.

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