Page 3 of Bloodguard

“Whoever or whatever it is,” Sullivan says, leaning back against the bars like he hasn’t a care in the world, “I’ll try to make it quick so the rest of yous can see how fast I kill and conquer.”

I almost crack a smile at his cockiness, but then the air thickens in the wagon as we begin to circle the arena.

“Bloodguard!Bloodguard!”

I work my jaw from side to side, trying to relieve the tension pulling the cords along my throat. By all of Old Erth, I will never get used to the entirety of this warzone. In this colossal space, we are insignificant. Specks of dust along an illustrious painting. Mere saplings in a forest of gargantuan trees.

Like always, I try to pretend the size doesn’t matter. Like always, I know it does. Plenty of space to run. Nowhere to hide.

I sit back, grunting a curse at everyone who couldn’t wait to arrive. The stands are full today—with spectators garbed in clothes of every color instead of the black we’d grown accustomed to over the past month. My stomach sinks like a stone.

“Well, shit,” Sullivan says.

“Guess the period of mourning is over,” the dwarf mutters into the heavy silence, her voice pitching low as she stares at her boots.

No one speaks as we each contemplate what this will mean for our upcoming matches. The High Lord’s been tempering his thirst for blood out of respect for the queen’s death this last month after her nearly three-year coma. Bets have been down as well—no one wanted to seem disrespectful while the kingdom mourned the loss of their beloved monarch.

I take a deep breath and concentrate on slowing my racing heart. Panic will only get me killed faster. Because today—today, the High Lord will most likely try to gain back that loss in revenue by making a spectacle out of our lives. And our deaths.

No one is safe today.

No one.

chapter 2

Leith

Focusing on the upcoming match, I tighten the bloodied bandage over my left hand with my teeth, glancing up at the people we pass.

The wealth among the crowd becomes less pervasive the higher the stands stretch above the stone arena. The Commons, the largest ring of rows at the top, is a sea of functional clothing stitched of simple cotton, whereas the center ring, the Middling, boasts robes of silk. But even that apparel seems mere scraps when compared to what the inner Noble Ring flaunts. Clothing of the finest silks and crinoline, flashing gemstones and gold, turns those seats practically into a treasure chest.

Eight sets of wide stairs are evenly spaced around the coliseum, and bet takers wearing bright-yellow tunics run up and down the rings, collecting wagers in exchange for tickets. And now that the crowd’s got a look at us wheeling into the arena, the antes are stacking up. Banners for each fighter, our pictures painted on them but no names, unfurl above the highest ring, flag after flag stretching all the way around the arena.

I can’t help but scan past each banner until I see Sullivan’s familiar face—and the odds being adjusted against him—and my skin tightens.Shit. Since Sully only has two more matches before achieving Bloodguard, the pot is especially high—and the odds show him as a favorite.

Fortunes will be made today. And lost.

Sullivan follows my line of sight and growls low in his chest. “Fuckers.”

Normally, we’d be happy for the favorable spread, hoping to make a few extra coins ourselves when we win. But not today. With odds like that, the House only wins if Sully falls. And I suspect High Lord Vitor has something extra special in mind for us now.

Everything in Arrow is crooked—and the High Lord and his son most of all.

At last, the moon horses whinny as they’re pulled to a stop in front of the Regent of Arrow’s personal box with four rows starting eight feet above the arena floor. Close enough that the royals can soak in the blood and violence but still at a safe distance. Their box, too, is decorated with the image of the phoenix, regal and red with swirling orange feathers. No one has seen the actual bird since it was killed a century ago, but the damn thing is painted on everything the aristocracy touches.

To hear the stories, they waited decades for the mythical bird to rise again after claiming victory over Arrow’s enemies and dying in the final battle.

But it never did.

Seems absurd to continue to idolize the creature, but then again, I find most of the things these royals do to be frivolous.

The rusty wagon door is yanked open by a guard, and one by one we spill out and stand in two rows, the crowd gleefully tittering before us.

I roll my shoulders and stare up at the royal box seats.

Sadists. All of them. “I should set that box on fire.”

Sullivan’s laugh turns into a cough. “Aw, come on, boy. At least your fans are here.” He points to a section in the Middling to our right, where a cluster of spectators waves bright scarves with my assigned banner colors—red and purple—but I pay them no mind and turn back to the royal box.

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