Page 36 of The Minotaur's Little Peach
The rope gives with a soft whisper of hemp fibers parting. My hands are free.
I wait three heartbeats, letting blood flow back into my fingers while I calculate distances and obstacles. The guard nearest me has his back turned, more interested in watching his companions' card game than keeping track of a supposedly unconscious prisoner. His mistake.
I move like a striking snake, rolling off the rough wooden platform they'd dumped me on and closing the distance before the guard can do more than start to turn. My arm snakes around his throat, cutting off any cry for help while my other hand finds the dagger at his belt. The blade slides free with barely a whisper of steel on leather.
"What the—" One of the card players starts to rise, hand moving toward his weapon.
I spin the guard around, using his body as a shield while the dagger finds the soft spot just below his ribs. He goes limp with a gurgling breath, and I'm already moving, letting his weight carry us both forward as I launch toward the remaining two.
The cramped space works against all of us—they can't spread out, can't use their numbers effectively, and every swing has to account for low beams and stacked cargo. But I know how to fight in tight quarters. Spent years learning to move efficiently in spaces where one wrong step could send you over the rail into hungry waves.
The first man draws his sword, a clumsy movement in the confined area that leaves him overextended. I duck under his swing and drive my shoulder into his midsection, feeling ribs crack under the impact. We go down together, grappling forcontrol of his weapon while his companion tries to circle around for a clear shot.
Blood makes everything slippery. His blood, running from the gash I open across his forearm. My blood, flowing from where his desperate punch splits my lip. The deck beneath us grows treacherous, but I've fought on worse surfaces during storms that turned the world sideways.
I get my hands on his sword hilt just as the third man commits to a downward thrust that would have opened my back from shoulder to spine. Instead, it punches through his friend's chest with a wet sound that makes even hardened killers flinch.
That moment of horror is all I need. I roll clear, came up with steel in my hand, and put the blade through the last guard's throat before he can recover from his mistake. He drops like a sack of grain, clutching at the wound while his life pumps out between his fingers.
The sudden silence is deafening after the violence. Just the gentle lap of waves against the hull and my own harsh breathing as adrenaline courses through my system. Three men dead in less than a minute, their blood mixing with decades of spilled cargo and salt spray ground into the wooden planks.
I should feel something about that—guilt, maybe, or satisfaction. But all I can think about is getting back to Soreya before Garruk decides to expand his definition of appropriate targets.
The hatch above creaks open, spilling lamplight down into the hold.
"Took you boys long enough to—" The voice cuts off abruptly as its owner takes in the scene below.
Garruk fills the opening like a storm cloud, his massive frame blocking out most of the light from above. Even crouched to fit through the hatch, he radiates the kind of controlled violence that comes from years of taking what he wants through force.His gold eyes find me immediately, cataloging the blood on my clothes, the bodies scattered around the hold, the blade still dripping in my hand.
"Korrun's little brother." His voice carries the weight of mountains grinding together. "Should have known you'd have some fight in you."
He drops through the hatch with fluid grace that shouldn't be possible for someone his size. The deck barely creaks under his weight—a man who knows how to move despite his bulk, how to use every pound of muscle to maximum effect. The kind of opponent who's survived more fights than most men ever see.
The rune-carved horn catches the lamplight as he straightens to his full height, forcing me to crane my neck to meet his gaze. Seven and a half feet of concentrated malice wrapped in dark fur and old scars. I'm tall for most races, but Garruk makes me feel like a child reaching for something on a high shelf.
"Your brother killed my blood," he says, circling slowly to my left. Measuring distances, looking for openings, calculating how best to tear me apart. "Honor demands an answer."
"Your brother tried to murder mine with a concealed blade." I keep the dagger low, ready to move in any direction. "Honor got exactly what it deserved."
His laugh is like boulders falling down a cliff face. "Honor is what I decide it is, boy. And I've decided your whole cursed line needs to disappear."
The exhaustion from my escape is already dragging at my limbs, making each movement cost more than it should. The guards weren't particularly skilled, but fighting three men in close quarters takes a toll even when you win quickly. And Garruk is fresh, rested, probably been planning this moment for months.
But he's also angry. I can see it in the way his massive hands clench and release, the slight flare of his nostrils whenhe mentions Korrun. Anger makes fighters sloppy, makes them commit too hard to attacks that should be feints.
It's the only advantage I'm likely to get.
He comes at me like an avalanche—all crushing weight and unstoppable momentum. But avalanches are predictable once you understand the terrain, and I've spent years reading the subtle tells that separate survivors from corpses.
His first swing comes from his right, a massive fist aimed at my skull with enough force to cave in stone. I slip left, feeling the wind from his knuckles ruffle the fur along my ear as I bring the dagger up toward his exposed ribs. But he's not as committed as I'd hoped—the blow was a test, and he twists away before my blade can find flesh.
"Fast," he rumbles, already adjusting his stance. "But not fast enough."
He's right, and we both know it. In a straight fight, his reach and strength will wear me down eventually. But this isn't about winning clean—it's about getting home to Soreya's worried face and Taran's sleepy sighs when I carry him around the kitchen while she makes kaffo.
The thought of my nephew—his tiny fingers wrapped around mine, the way he goes quiet when I hum old sailing songs—sends fresh fire through my veins. That boy has never known a world without me in it, never had to wonder if the adults in his life might just disappear one day. I'll be damned if Garruk's twisted sense of honor is going to change that.
His next attack is a combination—left hook followed immediately by a knee strike that would turn my ribs to powder. I duck the punch and catch his knee on my forearm, the impact sending shock waves up to my shoulder. But the position gives me an opening, and I drive my elbow into the thick muscle of his thigh before dancing back out of range.
