Page 6 of Bloodguard

From the top tier of the arena, four messenger hawks, their bodies twice the size of my head and their wingspan twice myheight, swoop into the center with large sacks gripped in their talons. Their dull auburn plumage flutters as they drop their sacks, and their wings flap furiously as they take to the sky again.

Two large ogre guards lumber to the fallen sacks and work together to dump out their contents. Weapons and shields clatter to the gray sand. Just as they finish, more hawks soar toward them and dump even more sacks with dull thuds in the middle of the arena.

Sullivan and I exchange glances, a knot forming in the pit of my stomach. The piles of weapons are larger than we’re used to…large enough foreverygladiator here to choose their starting weapons.

And instead of being herded back to the pens, a row of gladiators is nudged forward by the guards, toward the center of the arena. Their heavy feet stomp in the sand, puffs of dust floating away on the wind like funeral ash.

“Next row,” the human guard calls, and my chest tightens.

“We’re not being paired off.” Sullivan ignores the command, his expression bleak. “It’s all of us. Everyone for themselves.”

My breath leaves in pained bursts. We’re not just fighting a single opponent of their choosing—whether man or beast—we’re also fightingone anotherto the death.

The sun is high in the sky and burns along the deep axe wound on my back, but I barely feel it, my insides twisting.

“Next row!” the guard bellows again.

I take a step forward. Sullivan follows me, spitting into the sand. He’s very sick. I’m injured. But we won’t slow down for anyone.

In the arena, there is no slowing down. There is only victory or death.

The moon horses squeal as they are hurried toward the exit, the rickety wagon clattering behind them, making the wizard jump.

Death thickens the air, more tangible than the coat of sand settling onto our skin.

In the piles of weapons, I spot a sword and a dagger I can use. There’s a metal chest plate that would protect me more than the meager leather one I’m wearing now, but the seconds it takes to put the armor on could cost me my life.

Suddenly, the drums speed up, almost catching my racing heart and silencing the crowd, and then the percussion abruptly stops.

“Halt!” a guard shouts. “And turn!”

As one, we pivot to face the royal box, my mind racing with thoughts of which fighter I should kill first, who will be best to get out of the way quickly.Anyone but Sully, I argue.Anyone but my friend.

Just then, High Lord Vitor rises. “One hundred years,” he bellows, the magic within the royal box amplifying and reverberating his voice across the massive structure.

The crowd shrieks with excitement. “One hundred!” they echo.

“Thousands of gladiators,” he shouts.

The spectators cheer louder, enlivened by the thought of ten more.

“And today,” Vitor continues, “we have aspecialmatch.” He gestures to the bet makers rushing up and down the stands and then to the pile of weapons in the center. “There are two potential Bloodguards before us, and therefore there should be…twotimesthe payouts!”

The crowd goes wild.

Holy hell. This son of a bitch is spinning it so this crowd can make a fortune—not lose one. And we’re the ones expected to make or break their status. “Well, shit,” Sullivan mutters. Neither of us sawthiscoming.

People are screaming with delight and still trying to catch the ear of the harried bet makers scribbling on pads and tossing out tickets as fast as they can. They’re not even waiting to see the drop of the banner that will reveal our final odds.

The High Lord lifts his hand and pauses for the arena to quiet again. “In these final moments of betting, take in what awaits, my friends, and choose wisely, for those who thirst for water today, tomorrow may demand wine!”

The crowd’s thrill escalates, their calls for action mounting.

Then something roars, the menacing sound extinguishing all others.

Even the vultures circling the skies flee.

We still.

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