Page 6 of Impaled By His Omega Prince
“Yes, sir.” Askara bowed his head and stood tall. If his patrons had lost that much gold on Lumic, he dreaded what would become of him. “Perhaps the crowd will be more frivolous with their gold, thinking they may win more?”
“I don’t pay you to think, bastard.” Cilan spit on the floor once more and stormed off, the green ooze of his saliva reeking of sunderleaf and ground sorvin scales—a powerful anesthetic if used correctly. An addictive vice, if not.
“I’m not paid at all.” Askara shuffled toward the door, stretching out as he did so. Cilan had not given him permission to dress, so he went out, wearing naught but his leather breeches. Ordinarily he’d at least wear something to protect his neck and arms a bit, but unless Cilan specified, Askara did not do.
Cilan hesitated, halting in his step as he left the hall, shoulders pinching as if he wanted to say something, to wheel around and make Askara regret, but as if he thought better, he continued his march down to the dining hall turned impromptu dueling arena.
“Just get a sword and tear someone up. We have a debtor that wants to settle his score.” He waved at him as he dipped into what was left of the unfortunate armory before the stairs tothe basement. Of all the broken, dull weapons in the storage, the only one of any decent care was Askara’s sword.
He twisted his wrist, took a deep breath, and stepped into the hall to the jeers and cheers of a few dozen drunken gamblers.
Askara strode out onto the floor, his feet crunching over well-worn straw that lay scattered piecemeal over the floor. They’d brought it in to absorb some of the mud and piss that tracked in from their audiences. As it broke down, it mashed between the cobbles into dirt so thick in places that he was thankful for the arena floor, where he could be certain most of the grime was blood. Mostly.
He flexed his wrist as he strolled, rolling the sword to play with its weight, the heft comfortable. Far more comfortable than he felt when a patron slung a wooden tankard filled with sour ale at him, the solid weight of it colliding with the back of his head and soaking him from bare chest to leather pants.
“Ugh! Have you no decorum?” Askara turned, dripping to face the heckler and found Arlyth, Cilan’s mate, lush and draped over the shoulder of a rather large half-orc male. Arlyth laughed heartily while the cold ale seeped into places Askara would dread smelling once the fight and sweat had mingled in his trousers.
“Go on, queen slayer, this creature cannot pay his debt!” Arlyth waved Askara off, pointing him toward a stumbling half orc who leered from a bench at the edge of the arena.
It wouldn’t be a fair fight.
There were two sides to a coin when it came to battle. Physical strength was one; skill was another. However, a third side was presence—clarity of mind. From the large, dilated pupils of the creature, half man, half orc, Askara knew he was far too gone to last.
“This isn’t a battle, it’s an execution,” Askara spoke quietly as he walked away, head bowed. He muttered under his breath, a silent prayer, apologizing for what he was to do. For whoeverheld his sigil had control. Disobedience would cause great pain, pain that Miree andRuvaenhad never inflicted upon him.
The half orc choked up on an ax like someone might hold a rug beater. He wouldn’t have the strength in his swing, but Askara knew the routine. The goal was not to lose or win but how long the round would last.
He glanced over his shoulder, searching the crowd for Cilan. The glance cost him as the half orc swung the ax before the signal to fight. By sheer luck, his strike went wide, sailing past Askara’s shoulder. Had he been unglamored, his horn would have taken a blow. Another good reason for alphas to hide their gifts.
Cilan was nowhere to be seen and Arlyth too focused on the other half orc.
He held his sword, dodged the swing, ducked low, and clipped the blade at the half-orc’s ankle. He went down on a knee with a snarl as dark-brown blood spilled over the dirty floor, following the stomped-in straw through what had once been grout.
The half orc swore and clawed at the ground, waving the ax haphazardly, still too inebriated to understand the extent of their damage. “When you reach the bottom of hell, tell your whore mother I think of her.”
Askara never knew his birth mother, the supposed whore queen, the one that died in birth. The insult meant little to him as he gave the bastard prince a rude gesture with his tongue. People in the crowd laughed, and Askara chanced another glance around, Cilan nowhere to be seen. Arlyth and the other half orc had disappeared as well.
Not sure of what to do, Askara made his final blow, a swift slash across the male’s throat mere seconds before Cilan’s furious swearing rang out. “Stupid fucking child!”
Askara took a deep breath, dropped his sword, and with a swift gesture pulled the leather thong that held his hair out of hiseyes free. He hurriedly stuffed it between flat teeth just in time for the pain to hit.
As all the times before, Askara pushed his way through it, jaw clenched. It’d only take a few seconds as fire burned through the sigils carved into his flesh. Unconsciousness claimed him as hard as the floor did.
Another night in the cells…
Chapter Five
Lumic
It wasn’t a rare occurrence to see the dusk blood dragged in from the upstairs, in the throes of death or quite literally dead.
That evening was no different, but Lumic had a mote of guilt thatmaybehe was the cause of Askara’s latest plummet into lifelessness.
“Alpha, have you been inhumed?” Lumic peered through the bars of his cell and grinned. He was growing to like the male more by the day, as evidenced by his sudden caring about his actions causing Askara’s latest problem. After all…he didn’t throw the fight.
Askara lifted his head, the movement jerky, like his head weighed too much. “I live, this time. Come morning, I’ll thrive, even.”
“Good to hear. Apologies for not throwing the fight. They had me up against a half orc and the other half, I’m damned certain, wasn’t human. He would have gutted me.” Lumic shuddered.
