Page 42 of WarBride

Hastily I shake that thought away. After all he could mean anyone or no one, and none of it is my business. There are more important matters closer to hand. “Lurodos will be taking virulium when you face him?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“Would a dose guarantee your victory over him?”

“No.”

“The prince . . . Ruvaen . . . he seemed to think it would.”

Taar’s teeth flash in a grimace. “Ruvaen is Noxaurian. He thinks all his problems can be solved by demon magic.”

I bite my tongue, press my lips together. I certainly don’t like the idea of demon magic. Until this moment I wouldn’t have said I actuallybelievedin demons at all, but there was something about that vial, that liquid that defied unbelief. It was truly dark. Full of absence where there should be fullness, full of brokenness where there should be unity. No one should touch such power, alluring though it may be.

But what if Taar dies? What if I am passed into Lurodos’s hands? I won’t survive whatever follows. And Aurae . . . she’s still out there somewhere. Waiting for me to rescue her, waiting for me to come. Are all my hopes to be dashed on the altar of this man’s stubborn honor? Could I bear to beg him to compromise that honor?

“You’re quite determined then,” I say at last.

He flicks me a short glance. “I am.”

“Fine. Do it your way.” I toss my head and brandish his knife. “I’ve got this to . . . what? Slit my own throat if it all goes wrong?”

Taar looks at me earnestly. “You should go for the heart. Just like I taught you last night. Up under the ribs, no hesitation. Plunge deep. It will be painful—I won’t deceive you on that score. But it will be quick.” He pauses, exhaling a ragged breath. “It won’t be if you let Lurodos take you.”

I grimace. “You’re such a comfort, warlord.”

With a single step he crosses the small space between us. Though he does not touch me, he bends his head, and his eyes draw near to my own. A voice of absolute darkness rumbles in his chest: “I will not let it come to that.”

14

TAAR

I heard strange music in your soul last night, Vellar.

I stand with Elydark on the edge of the pit, gazing down at the packed dirt floor far below. He came at my summons, stepping out from the shadows of Wanfriel Forest like a phantom and making his way through the Noxaurian ranks. They shivered and quickly sprang out of his way, careful not to make eye-contact or rouse his ire. So he passed unmolested through the encampment and took up position at my side.

A small sigh eases through my lips. I place a hand on his powerful shoulder.Last night was . . . strange,I answer and offer no more. While Elydark and I are as closely bonded as two souls can be, he does not need access to some parts of my life.This morning, however, is simple, my friend. We must fight. We must kill.

Elydark tosses his head, his horn shining in the light of the rising sun. He is keen for battle, beast of war that he is. His song in my head is wordless but eager. I let it fill my own heart, bolstering my resolve. And my courage.

The pit is nearly emptied out now. Ordinarily used to hold reptants—who have a tendency to stalk and kill unsuspecting foot soldiers if not contained—it has been deemed a worthy arena for my duel with Lurodos. The reptants have been herded to the other side of the spire and contained with temporary entrapment spells, and the pit is swept clean of their wrinkled skin-husks and other refuse.

Come, Elydark,I say and lead my beast down a narrow walkway on the south end of the pit, which was appointed to us. We have no second, no support. All our people have gone, none of them aware of the insane risk their king has undertaken for the sake of a human woman. Gods, am I really such a fool?

Vellar?Elydark hums in my head, sensing the turmoil in my soul.

I don’t bother to answer, to explain. What explanation can I offer when I don’t understand myself? I simply adjust the set of my sword’s sheath and take a moment to survey the pit from inside. The ground is relatively smooth packed earth, approximately a hundred meters long and fifty wide. Ample room for maneuvers. I sniff, inhaling the stink of reptant and the old blood of their meals. This is certainly not the glorified battlefield on which I envisioned I would one day meet my death. Good thing I don’t intend to die this day.

Overhead the Noxaurians and fae mercenaries crowd in, eager to claim the best view of the bloodshed to come. They jostle each other so hard, many topple right over the steep edges. They scramble and slide, causing small avalanches of dirt in their wake, and are then obliged to climb fifty feet to escape.

On the east side of the pit stands the scaffold which was used for the auction last night, moved to serve as a makeshift dais. Servants have carried the two scrollwork gilt chairs from the prince’s pavilion and set them out like thrones. Ruvaen lounges in one of these, his leg swung over the arm, a cup of sparkling golden wine in one hand.

Shesits in the other chair. My warbride. The prize of today’s match. Watching me, her eyes large and dark beneath the fierce line of her brow. Her hands grip the arms of her chair, and she sits so still she might as well be a statue. Only the wind rippling through the folds of her skirts betrays the truth.

When I asked for a gown to be sent for her, I’d expected something simple and sturdy, something practical. But Ruvaen is an enthusiast for spectacle, and he sent something far more enticing. She’s clad in black, as might befit a Noxaurian lady, all silk and elaborate embroidery. The corset bodice laces up the front and pushes her pale breasts up in display while simultaneously emphasizing her trim waist and the devastating curve of her hips. Her shoulders are bare, but delicate drooping chains of gleaming black metal drip down her upper arms, symbolic, perhaps, of her captivity. The skirt is full, but with a ruffled slit that reveals all of her bare thigh when she’s seated. As she is now. From this angle, I can just glimpse the sheath of the knife she’s hidden there.

It’s difficult to look at her . . . because, once I look, it’s nearly impossible to look away. Every tantalizing glimpse only reminds me of what I saw, touched, tasted last night. A cavern seems to open in my gut, a longing, a hunger I cannot deny. I hate it. Hate this weakness in me. Hate the burning, raging determination that fills my veins, to skewer Lurodos on the end of my sword and spill his guts on this dirt floor. Not for her sake. For mine.

Vellar! What has come over you?

---