Page 34 of Bloodguard

From time to time, matches aren’t merely gladiator against gladiator or beast. Sometimes, the audience is rewarded with magic-enhanced combat schemes. I once had to fight in the middle of a magic-made sandstorm, visibility down to nothing thanks to the tiny particles swirling around me. I kept my eyes squeezed tight and relied on my other senses to alert me to danger. Or, more accurately, just kept swinging until I hit everything trying to kill me.

Today, a storm brews above the center of the arena, gathering momentum as it swirls and expands. Thunder crashes, and lightning showers the sky above the match with color. On either side of the coliseum walls, though, there’s only peace, and above the magic mirage flickering over the top of the storm, clear skies.

We ride past the manicured gardens along the wall surrounding the arena. They are enormous and as fragrant as Maeve’s potions. Yet they aren’t enough to counter the stench of death that permeates the air as we reach the gate.

It creaks open, and I almost hesitate to pass through.

I kick my heels, and we head toward the stables beneath the arena. Gunther beams as soon as he sees me and pumps his fist in the air.

“Bloodguard!” he shouts.

“Hello, Gunther.” I keep my tone neutral. The last thing I want to do is encourage him.

He holds my horse by the reins. It’s strange to dismount from a horse here, instead of being hauled through crammed inside a caged wagon like I’m used to. I’m well fed today, wearing expensive and clean clothes, with new leather armor and boots I’ve yet to fully break in. The stiff leather squeaks with every step.

A wave of shame burns my chest as I catch sight of a line of half-starved gladiators awaiting their turn to compete. I let the feeling glide through and past me like a breeze. Shame is an emotion I have no use for now.

As soon as Gunther leads my horse to a stall, a band of eight palace guards surrounds me.

I raise my hands in surrender to placate them. As thanks, I’m shoved forward, and my wrists and ankles are immediately shackled.

The chains feel heavier and more suffocating than I remember, but their weight helps me find that familiar hatred I need as much as weapons in the arena.

“Welcome back, friend,” a guard sneers.

He punches me exactly where that axe wound was. Had Maeve not tended to me, that punch would have incapacitated me. Instead, I merely let out a curse.

The stench of animal waste burns my nose as we move toward the back. I shuffle forward, keeping pace. A new guard behind me pokes me with her sword. She’s not rushing me, nor have I disobeyed. She’s just reminding me she has the authority to do it.

She pokes me again, and I grit my teeth against the sharp bite of pain.

I don’t make another sound, though, even as fresh blood seeps into my once-clean shirt.

Jakeb, who I thought would be sitting in the royal box by now, comes up beside me. His silver robe flutters in my periphery, but I can’t see his face.

“The gladiator is not resisting,” Jakeb tells the guard who poked me. His voice quavers. “There was no need to bloody him this close to battle.”

I don’t need to see him to hear the anger and disgust in his tone.

The guard chuckles, mistaking the tremble in his voice for fear. “Lord Caelen waits for you in the stands, Lord Jakeb,” she says. “Perhaps you should join him instead of wasting your time on this corpse.”

“A corpse who’s better dressed and better fed than you,” I point out.

My smile holds tight even as I’m shoved hard for my insolence.

“Watch your tongue, gladiator,” a different guard calls out but then thinks better of it and laughs, adding, “or don’t. I’m certain what awaits you today will enjoy biting it clean from your throat.”

The other guards join in, laughing outright now.

Aw, hell, that doesn’t sound promising.

The guards reposition to keep Jakeb out as we reach the pens, and my stomach clenches. The animals are gone, probably taken for slaughter to feed the spectators in the food tents on the opposite side of the arena. The slop and feces left behind ripen in the heat. It’s a stench I’ll never get used to.

“Need I remind you of my position?” Jakeb asks.

A smaller woman clears her throat but not her seedy grin. “No reminding needed, sir.”

The rest of the guards ignore him, and Jakeb grows more insistent. “I have paid High Lord Vitor a hefty sum to sponsor this man—”

---