Chapter 28
Never in my life had I encountered a man more ferocious than Harthon.
He often stood among the tallest men, his frame a scarred tapestry of muscle built on death and destruction.
But that wasn’t what made him so indomitable.
It was the way in which he carried himself, the power and capability conveyed in every motion, the unpretentious confidence and quiet promise of victory that lived in his rugged features.
And he had the record to prove it.
But when the Horrads chose their fighter, I wondered if I was finally witnessing an equal match, because lumbering through the slowly parting crowd was a goliath.
The Horrad towered a head above those he passed, his body so thick, he was as wide as two humans standing side by side.
The rags were too small for him in places, creasing around bulging biceps and stretching taut over an impossibly broad chest. The flatness of that chest suggested he was a man, but for all I knew, it could have been a monster or a destructive spirit that’d sprouted a terrifying human form.
Sticks turned to dust beneath his massive, weathered boots as he stalked into the circle the Horrads had created. Stefano had been moved to the side and shoved between Aric and Joris, close to where Harthon was rising to his feet and shaking out his recently freed hands.
By some blessing, his legs appeared steady, though the dried blood packed across his temple served as a stark reminder that he’d been unconscious only minutes ago.
His dark eyes raised to mine, and I tried my hardest to convey my confidence in him. I feared none of it made it out of my head and into my face, because worry and guilt and anxiety were pulling my skin tight, choking me from the outside in.
Before I’d negotiated this, he was going to die.
Now, there was a chance of survival, and of all our men, he held the greatest chance of victory.
Logic told me I should consider this a fortunate turn of events.
But all I could think was if Harthon died in this makeshift ring, it wouldn’t be because of the Horrads, who’d dealt out a slow, torturous death.
It would be because of the decision I’d just made.
Because this was all I’d been able to negotiate.
It would be because of me.
And that would break me beyond repair.
Tears pressed against my throat, constricting it further. I tried not to choke on them as I read his expression. Coolheaded poise. No worry lines creasing his eyes, no anxious pull to his lips. And that’s after seeing his opponent, I reminded myself.
It was everything I expected.
But this time, for the first time, I couldn’t find comfort in his steadiness. I was about to watch him fight for his life at my own choosing.
The giant approached the Horrad leader, who extended an expectant hand. He untied a roped weapons belt from his waist and handed it over before lumbering to the center of the circle empty-handed. There, he faced Harthon.
“Weapons?” I forced my vocal chords to work and punctuated the word by slashing an invisible dagger through the air.
A single, stern shake was the reply.
Cold washed over my skin as I sat back on the stool, nervously watching Harthon. No weapons meant he’d have to get close to the behemoth to take him down. Far too close.
Harthon processed this news with a slight twist of his lips that hinted at annoyance, as though this were some pesky inconvenience.
A Horrad nudged him forward and closed the circle behind him. Harthon flexed his fingers and began stalking the perimeter of the circle, studying the Horrad who was going to try to kill him. His opponent remained still and relaxed, staring ahead even as Harthon circled his back.
That only made me more unsettled. Anyone with eyes and survival instinct knew Harthon was not a man you allowed at your back—unless, of course, you believed you had nothing to worry about.
The end of Harthon’s circle brought him toward me, close enough to see the inflamed edges of the wound at his scalp and the veins straining against his temples. Despite his bravado, he was tired and injured, and he hadn’t eaten or drank in over a day.
The urge to launch myself at him, to hold him and be held by him, grew with every step he took. It stayed that way—just an urge—because he couldn’t afford the distraction. Besides, several Horrads stepped in front of me as he passed, blocking access.
When he finished his perusal, the Horrad leader stomped their foot, the muted thud loud amidst the tortuous quiet.
Without a word, the giant charged.
And Harthon let him.
He stood his ground, shoulders relaxed as all that muscle and bone rushed him. Only when the Horrad’s knees bunched to tackle did Harthon launch into motion, skirting to the side.
With his bulk and momentum, the Horrad should have barreled into the perimeter, giving Harthon an opening at his back while he sprawled on the ground or tripped over onlookers.
But he stopped almost instantly. Feet sliding for only a second, the Horrad pivoted with unnatural agility and charged again.
This time, Harthon met him, ducking under a heavy, swinging fist that would crush bones. He countered, jamming a punch into the beast’s belly and sending his other fist up to his face. Harthon made contact with his chin, a perfect hit that would render most men unconscious.
The Horrad didn’t even flinch. Instead, he used his opening to return the strike.
Harthon’s face whipped to the side, blood spraying from his mouth as he stumbled back. The Horrad pushed his advantage, hauling up a leg that landed flat on Harthon’s stomach. Somehow, Harthon recovered enough to absorb the blow, falling back and rolling over his head to pop to his feet.
He spat blood to the side, murderous intent taking over cool confidence.
Skies.
Harthon rushed in, feigning a punch the giant fell for.
As the Horrad’s head jerked away, Harthon brutally kicked his knee.
The limb wobbled but didn’t cave. Opportunity gone, Harthon spun away from a grabbing hand and kicked the spot he’d punched earlier.
Then he danced back, fists raised protectively, eyes analyzing as he saw what was becoming alarmingly apparent.
The Horrad wasn’t fazed by Harthon’s blows.
Harthon would need more than fists and feet to take him down.
The giant rushed him. Harthon turned, crouched, and gripped the arm that tried to tackle him, using that momentum to send him over his shoulder.
Only the Horrad didn’t go over his shoulder.
With that superhuman strength, he jammed his feet to a stop and tugged, and Harthon was the one flying through the air, colliding with the ground.
He was shoving to his feet in a blink, but the Horrad was already on him, fist flying down in a hammer toward his face.
Harthon shifted his head, just missing the deathblow as it slammed into the earth, but he couldn’t dodge the knee that rammed into his stomach or the weight of the Horrad that followed it. His face contorted in pain, hands reaching for something.
The Horrad’s hands found a home first—around his neck.
“No!” I lurched to my feet, not sure what I was going to do, but needing to do something. Rough hands pushed me back down. The wolf spun and growled, but those hands persisted, trapping me, forcing me to watch.
Harthon’s face turned red, hands scrambling at the vise squeezing his throat as the Horrad settled comfortably on his stomach. Harthon never scrambled, which meant…which meant…
No. Please—
The Horrad lowered his face, increasing the pressure with his bodyweight. A vein popped on Harthon’s temple, his teeth gritted in agony.
Agony that turned to a…smile?
In a sudden snap, Harthon jabbed his fingers into the burlap sack.
The effect was immediate. The Horrad reared away, hands abandoning Harthon’s throat and flying up to his face—to where his eyes were being dug by relentless fingers.
Harthon followed, heaving in breaths, skin a dark crimson.
The Horrad fell to the side, away from Harthon’s maiming fingers, and Harthon slid out from beneath him.
Two splotches of blood bloomed across the burlap as the Horrad struggled to kneel, torso keeled over, hands glued to his face.
I watched in abject shock, reeling from whiplash as Harthon stumbled to his feet, shoulders lurching as he wheezed in air, torso favoring his right side.
His first kick to the Horrad’s head was almost clumsy, fueled by exhaustion and pain. The second one came with an animalistic grunt and sent the giant to the ground.
The third sprouted a violent spot of blood in the center of his face.
The fourth made it bigger.
And the fifth, accompanied by a primal roar, caused the Horrad’s fumbling hands to still, though his chest still moved.
So there was a sixth, a seventh, and then two more, and the burlap could no longer contain all the blood spraying against it. Harthon’s boot was coated with it when the giant’s chest stopped moving.
Harthon let out another terrible snarl, a primitive sound made only more violent by the sweat and blood slicking his hair to his face, the bloodied fingers curled into meaty fists, the way his bulk surged with every hungry breath.
The circle widened as everyone but me stepped away.
Harthon’s gaze cut to me, and I didn’t see all of him there. He was more animalistic than the predator standing guard at my feet. Even the wolf sensed this, one of its hind paws reaching back like it wished to step away.
He’d won. The realization didn’t hit like I thought it would, so I looked to the Horrad leader for confirmation. We may have struck a deal, but killing their best fighter could have provoked a change of heart.
That blank fabric stared at me before slowly tilting in a stiff nod. A moment later, there was movement behind Aric, Stefano, and Joris as their captors reached toward their hands.
The realization still hadn’t sunk in when they stood as freed men and Aric exhaustedly muttered, “Thank fuck,” or when two Horrads emerged from the tent with bundles that held our weapons and placed them beside me.
Only when the throng of Horrads started to disperse did my fear and dread begin to loosen their hold. Harthon dragged a palm across his forehead, pushing his hair away as he came straight for me instead of resting, torso still tilting slightly to one side.
The wolf wisely shied away, making room for Harthon to stop before me, a wall of deadly muscle and violence.
His eyes a dark, wild storm, he gripped my shoulder with a firm hold, as if convincing himself I was here and whole.
I rested a trembling hand on his forearm, uncaring of the blood and sweat beneath my palm, and watched as some of the savagery eased from his gaze.
His chest lifted on a heavy inhale, then he pulled his hand away, hastily turning to the weapons.
Stefano, Joris, and Aric filed behind him, just as anxious to be armed, but I wasn’t paying attention to them.
Harthon was a stride away, this man who’d almost died before my very eyes, this man who’d just saved our companions, this man I could never lose because if I did, I think all those ugly, suffocating emotions would tear me apart.
No, not think. I knew it, as surely as I knew the heat chirping in my chest would lead us into the Domus.
Harthon grimaced as he crouched over the collection of steel.
I wanted to help him when he was clearly in pain, but I knew he wouldn’t want that—not with a lingering audience that needed to fear him.
So I stood, waiting impatiently as he and the others secured their weapons with the urgency of scavenging birds feasting on a carcass.
“What are you thinking?” Aric asked Harthon, not bothering with congratulations or concern for his injuries. Stefano and Joris hadn’t either. Harthon’s injuries weren’t the priority right now.
“I think the clan leader will keep their word, but I just killed their prized fighter.” Harthon’s voice was hoarse from being choked, but at least he was breathing fine. “Some might be angry, and they might have the audacity to do something about it.”
“They might be angry, but they clearly value me.” I chimed in from above. “We just proved we need you alive to protect me. That should make them hesitate, at least.”
Harthon jammed a sword into the sheath at his back. “We can’t count on that,” he stated brusquely. “We need to leave.”
“They might have a ceremony for her or for you. Leaving before that would be insulting,” Aric said, loading his daggers. He eyed the leader, who was silently communicating with a group of nearby Horrads. “Even if they don’t, they’re expecting to host her, at least for a night.”
“She doesn’t have authority over them, but they value her life,” Harthon acquiesced. “How important do you think she is?”
“No one ever leaves the Horrads alive, and they let her negotiate for our release. That tells us all we need to know.”
“We don’t know enough about them and their ways to make those sorts of assumptions,” Harthon countered sternly. “Let’s try to leave now. If we can’t, we sneak away at the first opportunity.”
“But we can’t go,” I blurted.
Four pairs of eyes flew to me. Harthon straightened to his full height, slamming a final blade in place. “Explain, and quickly,” he demanded, sounding every bit the commanding leader he was. Then and there, he wasn’t a man you held and kissed, though I still ached to do so.
But there was another ache, one that was growing increasingly persistent, that spewed the explanation from my mouth.
“The entrance to the path is here.” That managed to cut through his urgency, his lips parting in surprise. “And if it isn’t here, it’s very, very close.”
Over the last few weeks, I’d grown more and more in tune with the otherworldly pulse within me.
Skies, I was beginning to think I was good at reading it.
When I woke up bound to that tree, it told me we’d made good progress, but after that, it was like the intense emotions from our capture had dampened the signal’s true call.
Now that they were lifting, it was swiftly becoming clear we hadn’t just made good progress.
We were practically there.
For all I knew, the Domus could be twenty paces away. The canopy of spindly branches above was so thick, it was difficult to know if those walls rose beyond it.
Harthon’s mind silently worked as the others finished strapping on weapons. When he made his decision, he delivered it with clear displeasure.
“We stay.” He handed me my dagger, which he must have swiped from the bundle. “My guess is it’s mid-day. Take a few hours to recoup. We’re entering that path by morning.”