Page 183 of Bloodguard

I grab the boy by the shoulders. “Listen to me, Gunther. You can’t hang on to me, understand? I can’t protect us if you throw me off balance.”

His eyes well with apologetic tears, and I’m reminded that he’s just a scared little boy.

He opens his hands and shows me the bent nail he’s carrying. “I h-h-help. I-I-I fight.”

I soften my tone. “Yes. You fight and you protect the others.”

“Others?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say. “Exactly.”

I yank us back when the colt reverses and trots in the direction of her burning crate. It doesn’t surprise me—they’re curious creatures, taking in everything that might help or hinder them.

My back is pressed against the wall, and my free arm keeps Gunther beside me. The partially closed door is barely enough to conceal us. I hold my breath as the colt stops in the space between the crate we hide in and the next, allowing me a glimpse of her head and neck.

We remain quiet as she grabs the troll bear’s corpse in her sharp teeth and trots away from the flames to eat, giggling loud enough to be heard above the bone-rattling cheers from the audience and the whirling saws in search of flesh to maim. The cut along her long, thick tongue doesn’t appear to impede her appetite. The gross thing burrows into the bear’s gut and fervently sucks.

With a sigh that does nothing to relieve the stress weighing me down, I return my attention to Gunther. “I want you to follow me, stay quiet, and doexactlywhat I say.”

Gunther nods and holds out his small hand to offer me his nail.

“Keep it,” I say, maintaining a calm tone, heart aching at the valor of this child who has suffered such cruelty. “You’ll need it to help the others, remember, Gunther? They need you to protect them.” Again, he nods in that way of his. “You’re going to get on top of the crate where our friends are.”

“Friends?”

He asks in a way that makes me think he’s never had one.

“Yes, friends,” I repeat. “Get up on the crate and listen to whatever they say. Fight to stay alive.”

“A-a-nd potect dem,” he says.

“Yes, Gunther. You protect them.”

I hold out a hand to keep him still and edge toward the opening. Using tremendous care, I poke my head out. The colt is a few crates away now with her back to us. From here, I can’t judge where Pega and Luther might be. With the crackling of the burning crates, the smoke, and that frenzied crowd demanding I appear, I can’t get a fix on anything.

If I go right, I’ll interrupt the colt’s meal, and she’s almost done. The bear’s body has shrunk inward and is collapsing into its skeleton.

There’s no time to waste. We must move now.

I sheath my sword and motion to Gunther, cringing at the slapping sound he makes as he hobbles across the wooden floor. As he reaches me, I slip onto the sand.

The colt raises her head, her ears twitching. My knuckles ache from my grip on the axe. I don’t move. I don’t breathe.

The crowd’s gasps and eager murmurs work to my advantage. The colt fixates on them, slurping her tongue inward to whinny in that blood-curdling way of hers. The crowd eats it up. She’s enjoying the attention. As tall as she is, she can see over the wall of fire that continues to burn around us, trapping all ofusin here withher.

Her tail flicks. She’s not scared of anything and is probably thinking about how to jump the fire wall and pick her way through the royals.

Okay. Maybe she’s not all bad.

I ease away from the crate, motioning Gunther out. My nerves, already on edge, actually sting when Gunther steps onto the sand.

We start backward, and I swallow a curse. Gunther’s pace is slow and conspicuous. He’s trying to be careful, except the way he bears his weight creates a scratching sound in the sand.

Every drag of his foot kicks up dust and adds to the cacophony of sound.

I’m doubting whether I can get us through this.

That doubt triples when the buzzing sound resumes behind us. I throw Gunther over my shoulder and run in the direction of the saws. There are now six saws—two crisscrossing in the front, three spinning side by side, and one more taking up the rear.

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