Page 43 of WarBride

Ripping my gaze away from that scaffold, I turn to my licorneir. Elydark watches me narrowly, his gaze fixed on my forearm. I realize that, even through the armor bracer I wear, I feel the tightness of the invisible cord. It’s not real—it’s all in my head. But the pain is very real indeed, real enough to make it difficult to wield my sword.

I shake my head, focusing on Elydark. His nostrils flare. Fire burns in the depths of his eyes, anger and uncertainty mingled.Is this human your hearts-bond then?

No,I answer at once, and in the same instant, the constricting around my arm relaxes.I will save her. And I will deliver her to her people as promised. Then I will think of her no more.

My licorneir turns his head to one side, peering down at me.You may lie to yourself, brother-soul. But such lies do not work on me.

My teeth grind so hard, my jaw aches. I turn away, refusing to let my traitorous eyes lift to the girl again. Instead I gaze across the arena to where Lurodos even now makes his appearance, accompanied by the wild cheers of the bloodthirsty mob. Foregoing the traditional spiked Noxaurian armor, he wears only pauldrons and bracers like a Licornyn, mocking me and my people while simultaneously indicating to all those observing how easily he expects to take this victory. It has the desired effect on the crowd, who begin howling imitation Licornyn battle cries in between bursts of raucous laughter.

Four slaves lead Lurodos’s reptant down the narrow track behind him. The beast lashes its tail and hauls against its bonds, more vicious than I’ve seen it before, even on the eve of battle. I don’t know what its master did to drive it into such a frenzy. Reptants are loathsome creatures, but no living thing deserves to fall into the clutches of that man.

Just as they reach the arena floor, the reptant wrenches against its bonds and manages to break free of one man’s grasp. Quick as a flash it turns and rips the head right off the unfortunate man. The onlookers redouble their cheers, pumping their fists and howling with delight as the stench of blood fills the air.

I cannot help glancing at the girl again. She looks terribly pale, her expression rapt with horror as she stares down at the gory scene. One hand moves from the arm of the chair to touch the bulge of her hidden knife.

While the reptant is distracted, feasting on the remains of its victim, the three surviving slaves take the opportunity to chain it firmly to the wall. Then they make a hasty escape up the narrow track, while Lurodos watches with wry amusement. When thebeast looks up to snarl at him, he casually boxes its jaw. Catching my eye across the arena, he grins, showing every sharp tooth.

I meet his gaze grimly. My fingers tense around the hilt of my sword.

“Friends, countrymen, brothers and sisters-in-arms!” Ruvaen’s voice, augmented by glamour, rolls across the sky. A hush falls on the crowd as every eye turns to watch the Noxaurian prince rise from his seat. He speaks in Eledrian so that everyone listening may understand. Including any humans.

“We have gathered here today,” he declares, “that the right of ownership over this warbride may be determined once and for all. Taarthalor Ragnataarthane,Luinarof the Licornyn, has pledged to offer death’s blood in exchange for virgin’s blood to seal the marriage. Whether it be his own blood or that of Lord Lurodos of House Uldreyin, only the gods know.”

Even his glamoured voice is nearly drowned out in the hollers, roars, and cackles that explode from the onlookers. The girl’s eyes are fastened on him with such loathing. She looks as though she might like to snatch her knife from its hiding place and plunge it into Ruvaen’s throat. I grit my teeth, willing her not to be so foolish. As though she heard me, even through the cacophony, she shoots a glance my way. I shake my head once. She presses her lips into a hard line but places her hand back on the arm of the chair, fingers squeezing. I let out a slow breath, relieved. She would not survive any attempt on the prince’s life.

“Come forward, my friends.” Ruvaen beckons with both hands. Leaving our beasts, Lurodos and I stalk to the center of the arena and stand below the platform. Lurodos offers a deep bow while I merely incline my head. “You must,” the prince continues, “vow to honor the bloodtrial law. You will confine your violence to the pit. Let no harm come to those who remain outside this set boundary.”

“Aye.”

“Then let us bid Tanatar’s will be done.”

So saying, the prince raises both hands to the sky and commences a longwinded prayer to the God of War, dragging it out for the sake of drama and to heighten the tension in both combatants and onlookers. He always knew how to play a crowd for his own amusement. I take the opportunity to send a prayer of my own to Nornala, Goddess of Unity. May she protect the union forged between me and my bride last night . . . and forgive me for intending to break that union at first opportunity.

The prince finally reaches the end of his prayer. With an ominous, “So let it be,” he lowers his hands. “To your mounts now, my friends!” he declares.

Lurodos turns to me, grinning enormously. “Don’t worry, half-breed,” he growls. “I’ll make her scream so loud, you’ll hear her from your grave.”

I do not answer. I merely look at him, the promise of death in my eyes. His grin falters almost imperceptibly. Then, with a curse, he turns and marches back to where his reptant waits, bloody drool streaming from one corner of its awful maw.

I let my gaze lift one last time to the girl. This stranger with whom my very life and death have become so inexplicably entangled in the span of mere hours. She looks very solemn, her brows tight, her eyes wide. But she catches my look and nods. I plant my fist to my heart in salute. It feels both strange and right to honor her in this way.

Elydark is pawing the turf with massive, knife-sharp hooves when I return to his side. He does not articulate in my mind, but the war song in his soul echoes my own. I stroke his powerful shoulder and whisper in his ear: “Now, my friend. For wrath. For blood. For victory.”

Gripping the saddle, I mount in a single, fluid motion. Elydark throws back his head, uttering a deep-throated, ululating bellow. All the watching Noxaurians go still. A hush ofdread swallows their excitement. The battle-cry of the licorneir is a terrible thing.

But a cruel laugh breaks the hush as Lurodos yanks free the chains binding his reptant. “What’s this, my bastards?” he cries, swinging up into his saddle. “Have you no cheers left for your favorite? Let me hear your gods-damned voices!”

They take up their cries once more, dark words of hunger and gore echoing across the blue sky like a death chant. Lurodos laps it up as his due, turning his reptant round in circles. He holds something high in one hand: a dose of virulium. Glinting sunlight reflects off the glass surface, but darkness radiates from within. Lurodos bites off the top of the vial and pours the contents down his throat. His people redouble their cheers when immediately the madness overcomes him. He begins to writhe and shake, convulsing so hard in his saddle, I half-expect him to fall and be trampled beneath his reptant’s clawed feet.

“Let the battle begin!” Ruvaen cries.

This is my chance. A chance I cannot afford to miss.

I bow over Elydark’s neck and urge him forward. I must take Lurodos down now, before he’s fully succumbed to the virulium’s influence. I have seconds at most, but my licorneir moves as swift as thought, leaping across the distance. Perhaps it is unsporting to try to fell my opponent while he is vulnerable, but considering what Lurodos intends to do to the girl, I don’t really care.

We cover the arena in a few long strides. Elydark’s soulfire—the flaming reality housed within his physical form—erupts around us, burning through crevices in his flesh and licking up my skin to engulf me. We are one in flame and spirit, a terrible force of destruction. I swing my sword arm high, aiming for Lurodos’s head.

The reptant roars. Lurodos lurches back in his saddle, roaring as well, a demonic sound that bursts with a spurt of dark oozefrom his torn lips. He narrowly avoids my sword stroke and whirls a terrible black-metal flail in repost. It whistles through the air and swipes straight at Elydark’s flank, a crippling blow if it lands. But my licorneir, though a large, heavy beast, deftly avoids the deadly spikes.

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