Page 35 of Bloodguard

“He is in your care when you leave the arena grounds,” a different guard interrupts. “When he’s here, he’soursto tend to. Now leave,” he spits, and I think my jaw actually drops. A castle guard giving orders to a nobleman? That comment alone would earn him a death sentence from Soro. Maybe I can’t tell one lord from the next, but surely these guards recognize the man I now know is the prince’s husband. Even if the princeislocked up.

“Yourdistinguishedpresence is not welcome here with the rest of us dogs,” he continues. “You wouldn’t want to soil your fine robes—”

“Donotorder me about,” Jakeb fires back, drawing his lean elven body to its full height. “When he finishes, return him immediately to me.”

“Allthe pieces?” yet another guard offers. “Sure, if that’s what you want.”

Jakeb pauses, leveling a glare at each guard with a steely glint as he runs a hand over one of the gems on his robe, a subtle reminder of who has the real power and wealth here. “You will return all of him to my care. And if you ever disrespect me again, it’syouwho will be returned in pieces. Do I make myself clear?”

No apology is offered to Jakeb as he strides away, and while a few guards continue to grumble to each other, others go quiet. Prince Andres may be in prison, but Jakeb is still his husband and royal consort. They know that a lord of his status can still wield power. But he’s clearly lost his grip on his position. It’s the only explanation for why they screwed with him like they did.

My lip curls into a snarl. Of course the only royal offering me help is one who’s clawing her way to the throne, not already sitting pretty on one. That tracks.

With a curse, I let it go, focusing ahead and away from the crowded pens stuffed with gladiators. I focus on the misery that awaits behind those stone walls as I am shoved toward the opening of the arena.

As a reminder of the pure fuckery the royals are capable of, a fresh collection of mournful gray clouds circles the arena. Lightning strikes, followed by a strong taste of metal. A mage or a wizard conjured this storm, and this spell-wielder has centuries of experience, given the heaviness in the skies.

Murmurs escalate to shouts from within the arena. More lightning in dizzying shades of green and purple strikes. The crowd applauds, enjoying the light show.

I’m shoved forward again, and from practice, I know to go with the momentum, sliding through the muck on the floor in order to stay upright rather than pushing back.

The attendees in the arena shout with glee and excitement. They’re fascinated by the magic…not by the sounds of battle.

Blazes, what’s happening? There’s nothing indicating a match is underway.

The gate squeaks open, and I’m thrown into a pen off to the side. I slide across the mud and past Pega, an older gladiator who joined the same year I did. I haven’t seen her in a while—figured she died in the arena. Again, I keep my footing, disappointing the damn guards.

The gladiators look at me, most in bewilderment, as a guard tethers me to them.

Sibor eyes me up and down. She’s from Tanlita like the young wizard I saw earlier, but her blond hair is so long, the tattoo inked to her skull isn’t visible. If memory serves—and it always does about these things—she fights dirty. “Hell, boy. What did you have to suck to earn that getup?” she asks.

I ignore her.

I glance around my pen, counting fighters until my stomach sinks. We’re short at least four men and one giant.

“Where’s Olatd?” I ask. “And Luther?”

Pega rolls her shoulder. She’s shorter and leaner than most of her dwarven brethren, but her offense is superb, and her counter strikes are almost equal to mine. A commoner from Arrow, she tried making money any way she could, but working as a blacksmith and a horse trainer and a tailor didn’t provide enough for her and her orphaned nephew. So, she entered the arena with the same goal as the rest of us. Three years later, she loathes the kingdom as much as I do. As foolish as it is, I’m glad she’s still around.

The left side of her face is drooped from an unfair match last month, slurring her speech. “Olatd is dead, along with the four new recruits who were dumped in first,” she says. “Luther is alive. ’Cept he won’t make it to midnight.” Her hands clench and unclench. She likes Luther. A lot of us do. “The filthy mongrels are bringing him back now.”

Ned, an elf with short brown hair and a beard shorn to a point, curses like it’s his first language. His village borders the one Sullivan was from in Witoria, making his accent just as thick as my old friend’s, but I can still make out most of the words damning the gentry to the bowels of Old Erth. As far as fighting ability goes, Ned’s around the middle of the pack, which means sooner or later he’ll die here.

I shuffle forward, my shiny boots already stained with mud. “How bad is it?”

“Real bad,” Ned mutters. “This is the day we all finally bite it.” Sooner, then.

Five dead and Luther dying. We’re being massacred. Why?

“What time did they start today?” I ask.

Ned rubs his red eyes. “Hour past, I think.”

The battle horn blasted when we reached the city. It was early, yet we thought we were late and had missed the first match. But it wasn’t the first. It took barely an hour to lose almost six gladiators.

Shit.

In the arena, the show of spells continues, still without any signs of fighting.

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