Page 10 of Bloodguard

Thirty yards.

His screams precede those of two others crying out in agony.

I push faster.

Twenty yards.

The scent of cooking flesh fills my nose.

Ten yards.

Blistering heat pricks my skin.

The dragon turns. I dive over the pile, rolling across the sand and squelching the flames licking the exposed skin on my shoulders.

A wave of yellow and red erupts inches above me as I land on my chest, flattening my body as low to the ground as I can get, using the pile of weapons as a barrier to the dragon’s fire. The crowd bursts into screams of horror and delight, all but drowning out the screeching of two more gladiators burning alive.

Five gone. Five left.

And the dragon.

I squeeze my eyes closed, trying to ignore the burning agony rampaging along my shoulder. The dragon fire sealed my axe wound, but it cost me.

My entire body trembles, the pain taking control.Move, I tell myself.If you want to live, MOVE.

I keep low as heavy claws pound the earth, and then I push up on my knees and move closer to the pile. I manage to pry my eyes open, but they ram shut again as the smoke stings them like a rake of needles. Blinking several times, I try and try again, fighting the instinct to protect my vision.

Sight is useless to a dead man, and I want tolive.

I crawl forward and feel around. I’m not far from a stash of weapons. I need to keep moving.

My hand slips over the familiar feel of a sword. Tears blur my vision as I slap around to find the hilt. As soon as I’ve gripped it, I whirl, and something brushes against the sand.

My vision clears enough to see. The remaining dwarf gapes back at me on all fours. What’s left of her braid is singed close to her neck. Her fingertips scratch over the hilt of a shorter sword. She snatches it, but it doesn’t budge. It’s melted into a shield and blazes knows what else.

“Truce until the dragon is dead?” she asks between labored breaths.

She cringes at the sound of flesh tearing from bone. The dragon found more food near the exit of the arena. At my nod, the dwarf stands and starts searching for usable weapons.

Sullivan stumbles to my side. Half of his face is red and blistered, and he’s holding his left arm tight against his body, but he’s still alive.

“Are you good with a bow?” I ask the dwarf.

She shakes her head. I motion to Sullivan. “He is.” Given how Sullivan is guarding his arm, at least I hope he still is. Sullivan doesn’t protest, so I keep talking. “You find a bow, you give it to him,” I tell the dwarf, “and we’ll give the dragon someone else to eat.”

Understanding lights the dwarf’s bloodshot eyes, and we scramble around the pile, searching for anything we can use. It won’t be long before the dragon finishes his well-cooked cuisine.

“Spear!” Sullivan shouts. I look up, and he tosses it to me one-handed.

I catch the weapon and jab it into the soft sand, then grab two daggers from the pile and shove them into my belt. “There should be four,” I say to myself as I pick up another sword, judge the weight, and toss it back into the pile.

“What?” Sullivan asks. He kicks a piece of armor melted into a mace.

“I count five dead since the start of the match,” I explain, continuing to rummage as fast as I can. I toss him the next good sword I find. It’s heavier and harder to wield, but there’s little to choose from. Most of the weapons are damaged or useless, and running to the other piles will only capture the dragon’s attention.

“Six with him.” I jerk my chin to the mangled mess of bones the dragon just spat out.

Sullivan realizes what I’m saying. “You, me, and the dwarf make three.”

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