Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
T hea almost stopped in her tracks. She hadn’t seen Hawthorne since their tense exchange in the alcove nearly a week ago, her heart lodging in her throat as it echoed in her mind:
‘I won’t nominate you as my mentor, happy?’
‘Not even close, Alchemist…’
The bitterness remained on her tongue even now, but the sight of him…
It undid her. He stood straight-backed with his feet apart, the promise of violence in his eyes.
He was brutal and terrifying, yes, but something else simmered beneath the surface there.
Something she wanted to learn for herself, something that continued to slip through her fingers, each of their stolen moments unfinished.
Cal nudged her to keep moving towards the platform.
Vernich the Bloodletter and Torj the Bear Slayer were shirtless, their enormous frames corded with muscle, while the Hand of Death had simply rolled his sleeves up to the elbow, as though he didn’t expect to break a sweat.
Vernich addressed them first. ‘You are here to learn hand-to-hand combat,’ his voice was gravelly, but it projected to the far reaches of the training ground.
‘We’ll spar first, so you can see technique at its finest, then you’ll pair up and beat each other to a pulp.
’ There was a note of satisfaction in his words that made Thea flinch.
Hand-to-hand combat was the skill she had the least familiarity with.
She hadn’t even known this training arena existed before now.
To think that in all her years of spying, she’d never managed to see a fighting lesson here.
And now… Now she was to be thrown in the deep end, expected to beat someone to a pulp .
All the while, the Warswords would be watching, considering each of them for the open apprentice positions.
She wasn’t the only tense shieldbearer in the crowd, though she took little comfort from that.
‘I’ll take the Bear Slayer first,’ Vernich said, nodding to the golden-haired warrior.
Torj merely grinned. ‘As you wish, brother.’
There was a hint of mania to the exchange, and Thea wondered how much blood they’d spilt between them. The men sized each other up in a primal way, taking their places.
Hawthorne gave a subtle shake of his head before striding to the edge of the arena to watch.
Thea swallowed and turned her sole focus to Torj – the Warsword who would hopefully become her mentor, her key to becoming a legend in her own right.
There was no official start, no ceremony.
The Warswords simply lifted their fists to protect their faces and circled one another.
There was a unified intake of breath as they began.
Their Furies-given gifts became apparent in moments – the unnatural speed, strength and agility rolling off them in waves. They stalked each other like prey.
Thea shifted on her toes nervously.
Vernich threw the first punch, which Torj blocked easily enough, taking the chance to make his own swing at his fellow warrior. The sheer power in each blow was enough to make Thea wince – even when one was deflected, it looked painful.
But the Warswords were grinning savagely.
Their expressions were wild enough that, not for the first time, Thea imagined how the Great Rite turned men into Warswords, and what exactly they faced in order to be gifted those extraordinary abilities.
And then there were the other legends… That some were granted even more, that some were granted… immortality.
The Bear Slayer and the Bloodletter were a blur of fists and kicks, breaking apart only to circle each other once more.
‘This makes for poor entertainment,’ Hawthorne said drily from the sidelines.
His words seemed to spur Vernich on, for the older Warsword launched into a flurry of jabs, his fists blurring as he moved.
Thea tried to focus not only on the punches, but on their footwork as well.
It was just as much a dance as swordplay was, and as someone who didn’t have the same weight behind her, she knew she had to take advantage of the finesse and precision involved.
The two Warswords fought across the width of the arena, the audience of shieldbearers utterly transfixed on their every move.
Jabs, vicious hooks and uppercuts all failing to land.
The intensity increased as each warrior fought to gain an advantage.
Vernich swept a leg beneath Torj’s feet, but the Bear Slayer leapt above it, then delivered a teeth-rattling blow to the side of the Bloodletter’s face.
It landed, only riling the older fighter up.
He lunged, raining blow upon blow down on Torj, who blocked each one.
They sparred back and forth, back and forth.
‘I think they get the idea…’ Hawthorne called from the edge of the ring.
Torj looked surprised to find him there, as though he’d lost himself to the rhythm of combat.
Vernich seized the opportunity, lifting his opponent clean off the ground and hurling him bodily from the ring.
Torj crashed to the ground, sending a group of shocked shieldbearers scrambling.
The force of it should have broken his back, but the Bear Slayer was on his feet in an instant, grinning sheepishly as he dusted himself off.
‘If you’re worried about them getting bored,’ Vernich snarled at Hawthorne. ‘Let’s make it interesting.’ He went to Seb on the sideline, who was holding his scabbard.
Thea frowned. Since when were they so close? Though it made sense, the two most detestable people in Thezmarr uniting.
The Bloodletter unsheathed a wicked-looking blade.
‘If you insist,’ Hawthorne sounded bored as he drew his own sword. ‘To first blood.’
‘Fine.’ Vernich stalked to the middle of the arena.
Thea had never seen anything like it. Hawthorne struck first with a brutal swing of his great blade, the sheer strength of him radiating outward.
Vernich blocked it and drew a dagger from his boot, palming it menacingly.
Hawthorne’s expression remained unchanged, but his sword blurred as it carved through the air.
The impact of steel on steel echoed up the arena and Thea was frozen in place as she watched them parry, feint and lunge, each movement more savage than the last, their muscles quivering with the effort.
‘Haven’t you had enough, old man?’ Hawthorne growled.
Vernich spat blood in the dirt. ‘Fuck off, Hawthorne.’
Hawthorne fought with his dark hair tied back, his rolled-up sleeves revealing tanned, muscular forearms and the tattoo that extended from his hand.
He moved with a brutal efficiency that made Thea both envious and flushed with desire.
She recognised several manoeuvres from the morning training she had witnessed.
There was great discipline there, so sharply honed that it was now instinct.
Watching him fight, Thea instantly regretted giving him her word that she’d nominate Torj as her mentor.
What she’d seen in those mornings on the road, what she’d seen when he’d taught her how to shoot, was nothing compared to this.
He was the power of the Furies incarnate, the most skilled Warsword Thezmarr had ever seen.
The Hand of Death.
His sword flashed through the air, drawing a hiss from Vernich.
A thin line of blood trailed from a minor cut on his bicep.
‘First blood drawn,’ Hawthorne said, lowering his sword.
‘Again!’ Vernich roared, lunging violently.
Hawthorne batted the blade away, drawing another curse of pain from Vernich.
A matching cut on the other bicep was now bleeding.
Hawthorne waited expectantly, red trickling down the steel of his sword.
For a split second it looked as though Vernich was ready to attack again, his face contorted in a frustrated snarl, but with a grunt, he wiped the blood from both his arms and nodded to Hawthorne, withdrawing from the centre of the arena.
‘Pair up,’ Hawthorne said. He didn’t need to raise his voice, and he didn’t need to say it twice. In the wake of his demonstration, the awed shieldbearers flung themselves into action.
Suddenly, Seb was blocking Thea’s view. ‘I’ll take the stray,’ he said, a nasty smile spreading across his face. ‘It’s about time I put her in her place.’
‘Absolutely not,’ Cal interjected, shoving Seb back.
‘Why not?’ Thea heard herself say. ‘That black eye’s looking a little lonely…
’ Despite her words, fear had seized Thea’s heart.
She was no fool. She’d got a lucky shot before, but she knew she was no match for Sebastos Barlowe.
Not only was he bigger and stronger than her, but he’d been training for years.
‘Don’t fight foolishly,’ a familiar deep voice said in her ear, sending a current of charged energy through her.
Thea was pulled away from the gathering tension to find Hawthorne peering into her face, a flash of frustration in those silver eyes.
‘I’m not,’ Thea replied stubbornly.
Hawthorne ignored this, his grip still firm on her arm as though he expected her to lunge for Seb.
She wanted to, hatred simmering just below the surface at the bastard who was so intent on humiliating her. She yanked her arm out of Wilder’s grip. ‘I will beat him,’ she muttered determinedly.
Hawthorne didn’t move from her side. ‘Perhaps one day,’ he said. ‘But not today. Not tomorrow. You know it, and worse, he knows it.’
Thea’s throat constricted. ‘Why are you here? Talking to me?’ she asked quietly. ‘You made it clear you wanted nothing to do with me.’
Hawthorne’s eyes darkened, and he shook his head in disbelief. ‘Is that what you took from that conversation?’ His low voice vibrated against her skin and once more Thea became particularly aware of her heart thudding against her chest.
The Warsword considered her for a moment before he wet his lips and rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Not here,’ he said. He stepped away and pointed to Kipp. ‘You!’