Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
HORNHALL
T he other rounds had been fought in pristine arenas. At least, they started out pristine, before blood covered the floor.
Each event had maintained a similar setup. Nobility and High-fae elevated on scaffolding or in stadium-style seating for the best views, far removed from the actual carnage. The townsfolk crowded the lower sections, craning around one another for the best views, held back by barriers and guards positioned every six feet.
Today’s challenge was not so refined. A muddy fighting pit was to be the stage. A crude circle with no borders, defined only by eager, shouting, sweating bodies. Ventus’s version of Jarheads–lesser fae with lesser IQs. The grunts of the king’s army.
Each hateful face contorted with whatever lies their superiors had instilled in them.
“Make her pay!”
“Kick her scrawny ass!”
“Let’s see how pretty she is when I stomp my boot in her face!”
“Kill the rebel loyalist! ”
“Let us fuck her decapitated body from both ends when you’re done!”
That last one was actually good.
Katarra categorized their slurs, pinpointing where each arose from, assessing the intensity behind the taunts–separating boasting from yearning.
She didn’t have to look to the observation deck forming a large ring above them, to know who had planted the seeds of wrath in these soldiers’ heads. She could feel Durrant’s oily smile from where she now stood, ankle deep in the slick mud.
The stupid bastard . He’d clearly leveraged the story with the escaped boy to what he thought was his advantage, painting her a rebel sympathizer. Katarra smiled.
What the idiot didn’t know was she loved the applause as much as she fed off the jeers. She’d always been motivated equally by both. ‘A talent’ , her father used to say, to be so abundantly amoral.
While she appreciated the attempt to throw her off her game, she would also delight in making Durrant pay later. After she dealt with the towering High-fae across the pit from her, tossing the broadsword between his hands.
This would be her best challenge yet. Lady Cashmitt had been too easy yesterday. For someone who was supposed to be good with knives, the High-fae sure hadn’t counted on the one Katarra embedded in her throwing hand.
But this fight… Katarra had been looking forward to it since the commander told her last night. The rules had been bent only for this competition. Today the contestants were permitted to fight to the death.
Hence the frenzied cheering.
There were only two swords to choose from. Both were originally fashioned for males. The broadsword, longer than she was tall, was taken by her opponent.
Between his unnatural size, and that beast of a weapon, Katarra would have to make all her strikes count. The smirk on her opponent’s face proved he intended to use his advantage unmercifully.
Good! She’d always hated fair fights.
Katarra weighed the longsword in her hand. Smaller than his broadsword, it was still too big for her. She would have to rely on her speed and training, hope that his stamina matched his hulking size, and stay alive long enough to wear him down.
The shouting intensified. Katarra looked up. It was time to really get to know her adversary, beyond what she already knew. He was good with that sword, handled it like a lover. But he favored his left leg, put his weight to the inside of that knee. Leading her to summarize the right one was weak. Of course, she couldn’t overlook the most obvious detail; he was very much looking forward to killing her.
Why?
One heckler in the crowd caught her attention. Specifically, the encouragement the male shouted. “Make ‘em proud.”
It was all she needed to hear. Her opponent had something to live for. Someone to fight in honor of. That was his greatest weakness. Emotional ties; deadlier than any weapon. Able to kill with a single breath–love.
Those chains would hold him back, cripple his ability to think objectively. At least, less objectively than someone void of such tethers. Someone with nothing to lose. Only an empire to gain.
Someone like her.
The crowd's chants and stomping became thunderous. Her adversary twirled his sword above his head, delighting the spectators with his effortless display of strength. A slick grin widening his mouth, his tongue darted out to wet his lips. “ Champion Talon, are you ready to lose that title today?”
“I guess that depends on you.” She smiled sweetly. “Are you good enough to take it from me?”
They circled each other. The High-fae chuckled darkly. “I heard you were a charmer. Too bad I have no need for pretty smiles.” He jerked his chin toward the raised scaffolding. “I have a lady. A high-born female worth a dozen of your kind. Today I’m going to give her a gift.” He tossed that giant sword from his right hand to his left. “Earrings made from your strange colored eyes.” He lunged.
His speed surprised her, but she deflected the blade. It cost her a step. The ring of fae around them roared, deafening now. A thrill went through her, even as her adversary threw another overhead cut. Again she deflected the blow. Then a second came, faster than the first. That step backward cost her the attack.
Three. Four. She only had time to block the initial flurry of blows as the force of each pushed her back in the thick mud. She dug in, trying to find purchase, looking for a breaking point.
Luckily, that break came sooner than later. He, so focused on the strength and brutality of his swings, stepped one foot over the other. Katarra didn’t squander the opportunity. His weight split precariously, she dropped low when he moved to take that next step.
She spun out from beneath him faster than the giant fae could track, raising the hilt of his broadsword with her own as she did. A quick twist of her wrist and she wrenched it from his grip entirely, disarming him. His weapon arced through the air.
Katarra relented, to the barking protest of the crowd, and resumed her circling, allowing her opponent the courtesy to reset. At least, the appearance of it. What she really required was a moment to change the grip on her weapon, to come at him left-handed. She wanted to see if that messed with his head, forced him onto that bad leg.
Apparently, this particular High-fae didn't practice the art of fair play. The barbarian lowered his massive shoulders like a bull and charged her. She didn’t have time to dodge.
The breath left her lungs as he slammed her into the ground. Her skull striking the earth sounded akin to a melon popping. She saw stars. Right before she saw his massive fist.
Blood spewed from her mouth, dotting the sky like red rain, before falling back onto her face. Her opponent straddled her waist, weighing her down, and drew back his meaty fist for the second strike.
Too slow. He was too slow this time. She rammed the heel of her hand up into his chin.
The force knocked back his head. Just enough for Katarra to thrust up her hips, bucking him the few inches she needed to knee him in the tailbone. The hit sent the High-fae brute lurching forward and provided Katarra the leverage to shove him off completely.
They both rolled and scrambled to their feet. Katarra lunged for her sword in the black slush.
Dripping with mud, her opponent glared at her and held out his arm toward the fighting pit’s perimeter. The gesture was answered by someone swinging a battle axe into his awaiting palm.
That’s when she saw it–an almost imperceptible glimmer of magic, radiating off her adversary’s shoulders like steam. A quick glance up to the commander watching from the scaffolding proved he didn’t notice it. No one seemed to.
Katarra divided her stance. Her vampire vision must be helping her out. It also explained why he was so fast, faster than any she had battled. He was relying on his magic in a tourney that forbade it.
She wasn’t given any longer to contemplate a strategy before the fae dropped low and charged again. This time emitting a roar that drowned out everyone around them.
Katarra blocked with her sword as he swung for her head. The vibration of the hit clanged through her bones, but she managed to parry the strike. She wouldn’t tire him out, though. Not with him using magic.
He heaved the axe back over his head. She kicked as hard as she could, aiming for that bad knee.
He hissed as the bone snapped. Katarra spun and dropped low, kicking his good leg out from under him. He hit the ground.
She uncoiled and readied her longsword, preparing to land the killing blow, but something stopped her. Literally froze her in place .
Someone shouted, “Talon!” A warning in the crowd. A girl’s frantic voice pierced through the chaos around them.
Katarra couldn’t even steer her gaze to see who it was. All she could do was blink. Her opponent held her paralyzed with his undetected magic. He drew a dagger from his boot and drove it between her ribs.
Her paralysis vanished and she dropped to her knees, her sword landing in the muck beside her. The High-fae yanked out the blade and Katarra looked down at the damage, watching blood pour from the hole in her chest.
Something was wrong. Her body wasn’t closing the wound. Not fast enough.
Her eyes lifted to her opponent as he pushed to his feet, leg totally healed, and smiled down at her. Poison . The rat-bastard had laced the blade with some sort of poison.
The High-fae picked up the battle axe and drew it over his shoulder for the killing blow. Again the child cried out, the injustice in her voice a match for the annoyance coursing through Katarra. She hadn’t come this far to be outwitted by some yellow-bellied worm.
She wasn’t sure why she did what she did next, but she looked past the hulking fae to the commander on the scaffolding.
Disbelief and…something far deeper passed across Archer’s face as those silver eyes bore into her. “Get up,” they seemed to say.
“Get up!” He did say. Though his lips never moved.
Katarra’s attacker brought down the axe. She rolled. The wicked blade embedded deep into the thick mud, right where her head had been.
The High-fae heaved the weapon out and back over his head. Katarra’s hand fumbled for the hilt of her sword in the slime. He swung for her again.
She brought the longsword up as he did.
The realm went still. All sound hung voiceless in the muggy air. Silence, but for the gurgle of blood rising from her opponent’s throat. It dripped out of his surprised mouth .
His legs gave out and his own body weight completed the impalement. He slid down the blade, in slow motion, stopped only by the hilt of her sword.
Katarra rolled onto her back as her vision grew fuzzy around the edges. “That’s a really shitty gift.” Then she passed out.
Windsong
E irik gritted his teeth when one of the slashes on his back reopened.
He managed to place the saddle down gently, and closed his eyes briefly to the pain. Salt had been applied to his brutalized flesh after the flogging, to delay the healing. Giving him time to sit with the punishment and atone for his crime.
He was fine with that. In fact, he had been offered a choice in the matter. Because he was a crowned prince he could simply leave. Leave, and not come back. Or, he could accept the same punishment any of his brothers in arms would have been subjected to.
It wasn’t even a question. He would take the flogging. Same as he would stop that chandelier again. In a heartbeat.
He told the king as much when it was over and he lay in a pool of his own blood. His brother would always come first. But he had made a promise to this realm when he agreed to the terms of admittance. He wouldn’t take the easy way out.
Strangely, even now, Eirik felt a sense of comfort here. He always had. Like Ventus held the map to a treasure his heart longed for.
He hadn’t been prepared for the king to respond to that admission with understanding. When all was said and done, Calian dismissed everyone. Including his brother, who Eirik knew was one lash away from burning Windsong to the ground.
The king explained he had known well who he was asking to join his personal guard. Not simply a prince, but an Elemental turned vampire. A Chosen One. He knew Eirik’s first priority would always be to his birth realm and his blood family.
That being said, the king couldn’t make exceptions where his own court was involved. If Eirik wanted to remain in the Warborn, he must prove his loyalty to this kingdom.
“I don’t like it,” Bastian said, from where he leaned into a stall door.
“So you’ve said.” Eirik looped the bridle over Alydar’s head. “About a hundred times.”
“I don’t understand why you don’t just tell him to fuck off, and get your ass back to Earth. Don’t you miss having full reign of your powers–without these ridiculous restrictions? Or television? Cars? Women that don’t wear corsets?”
“As a Warborn, I’ll have free reign of my powers when I step outside the city proper,” Eirik reminded him. Then cracked a smile. “And those corsets make you work harder.”
Bastian gave him a droll stare. “Seriously. Why do this for him? What’s the endgame?”
“I told you, I like it here. Besides, I still have much to learn.” He faced his brother. “Can’t have you boasting from your future throne how I gave up too easily.”
Bastian didn’t grin. “Is that what this is really about?”
“Maybe. In some small part,” Eirik said. “But it really boils down to the fact that I have formed bonds here, feel a real sense of purpose. I care for the occupants of this realm. I want to see them, and Ventus, prosper. I want to be a part of that growth.” He met his brother’s gaze. “I know you don’t understand. Your experience has been different. But I need to ask something of you before I go.”
“Anything.”
“I want you to keep an eye on Mekale.”
“Anything but that.” Bastian shook his head.
“You are the only one I trust–”
“The words that are about to come out of your mouth should never be uttered in connection with the fairer sex.” Bastian lifted a brow. “You know this. You know I have no power where they are concerned.”
“I know that’s a lie you like to tell yourself.” Eirik studied the scar over his brother’s left eye. The one Bastian wouldn’t let heal. The punishment he had inflicted on himself. Eirik sighed, “We both know it’s not about any lack of control .” He paused. “I need this of you, Bash.”
Bastian exhaled. “Only if you promise to hurry back.”
His brother didn’t ask why. Didn’t have to. If Bastian hadn’t yet picked up on the connection– whatever it was Eirik shared with the princess –he did now.
Same as he knew Bastian wouldn’t betray it. No matter how much his brother needed the universe to think he might.
For as much as his twin enjoyed playing the villain, he never took on that role when it truly mattered. Eirik wondered if it was something he should confess being aware of. That he knew why his brother did it–toed the dark line.
He did it so Eirik would always have the light.
Eirik put his foot in the stirrup and hoisted into the saddle. “As soon as I get the information the king needs.” Eirik turned Alydar toward the stable doors. “Follow through on that hunch about the witness. The Warborn will help you with whatever you need.” He looked down at his brother and grinned. “Also, follow through on Sage Kerrington.”
Bastian’s eyes narrowed. “I already explained why you are mistaken. What you think you sensed from me last night was just annoyance. Nothing more.”
“I hear the words coming out of your mouth, brother.” Eirik leaned down. “I simply don’t believe them.”
He righted himself in the saddle and nudged his horse. “You deserve to be happy. As much as the rest of us,” he said over his shoulder.
The sun was high in the sky, the leaves overhead casting shadows, marbling Alydar’s chestnut coat as they ambled toward the castle gates. He would do what was asked of him. He would…
Her scent hit him, the soft scent of gardenias and sunshine–the smell of happiness–right before Mekale stepped through an archway.
“Well, well.” Eirik smiled down at her as he drew nearer. “If it isn’t the bridge I said I’d cross when I came to it.”
“In that case, I hope you brought matches.” Mekale folded her arms. “Where are you going?”
Eirik brought Alydar to a stop. “You know I cannot answer that.”
“Why are you going?”
“Another question I am not at liberty to discuss.”
“Then let me rephrase it.” She stepped closer, tilting her head to stare up at him. “Why not leave Ventus? I know my father offered you the choice.”
Eirik crossed his wrists over the pommel of his saddle and looked over her head, considering. “Is that what you want?” He looked back down.
Her brows knit together. “I want you to be safe.”
“You’d prefer I run away?” he challenged.
“No…”
“Then what, Princess?” He could hear the bite in his words, but he was powerless to curb them. “What would you have me do?”
“I would have you, at the very least.” Her clipped tone matched his. “Take someone else along.”
Eirik exhaled slowly, checking his frustration. “The other members of the Warborn are known too well throughout the land. We will not get the information needed if the fae I seek think I’m working for Windsong.”
“Then take someone else!” she snapped. “Take your brother.”
He shook his head. “Bastian cannot go for a number of reasons. The most obvious being that he is not sworn to this court as I–”
“Make him swear. ”
Behind the temper, Eirik caught a glimpse of the emotion ruling this conversation. In her beautiful chocolate-colored eyes was fear.
He reached out his hand. “Give me your hand.”
“No.”
“Give me your hand, Mekale.”
Her gaze traveled to his open palm. He thought she was going to dig in, continue this stubborn dance they were having.
She sighed and placed her hand in his.
Eirik folded his fingers around her much smaller ones. “I didn’t get to thank you.” She looked up. “For rushing to my defense last night.”
Her glimmer of surprise was followed by a lovely rose blush. “Your actions were justified,” she said. “I’d have pleaded mercy for anyone in your position.”
“But you did it for me.” He smiled.
The color in her cheeks deepened, but she held his stare. “I would find it impossible not to.”
Eirik squeezed her hand gently. “And I would find it impossible to leave here without knowing someone had your back.” He let go. “Which is the other reason my brother cannot go with me. Because I asked him to look after you.”
Her eyes grew round. But he was already moving, heading to the gates, afraid if he gave her the chance to respond, he wouldn’t make it out.
Without a backward glance, Eirik sent a warm breeze through the trees, heard it rustle the leaves, felt when it connected a kiss to her soft skin. The only goodbye he would give.
Through the bustling and winding city streets, he rode until cobblestone turned to dirt under Alydar’s hooves. Further up, he traveled through the fields heavy with crops, past farmers bent to work. Until finally, the town behind him was little more than a shadow tucked neatly beneath the towering castle walls.
He bid Windsong farewell as they stepped into the tree line. That’s when the relief came. The wounds on his back pulled tight, stitching themselves together, pushing the remaining salt out of his body.
He didn’t have to look for the source to know from where the remedy stemmed from. Borgen had waited until he was past detection to send the magic spurring for him. A friend’s goodbye.
Eirik crossed his chest with his right arm and touched four fingers to his left shoulder, then sliced downward. The Warborn salute. A pledge to his brothers in arms.
With a cluck of his tongue and a nudge of his heels, he cued Alydar. The stallion pinned his ears and took off, racing the wind, the realm a smear around them.
Eirik sucked in the fresh forest air as the landscape morphed. The wild took over, leaving the civilized far behind. He smiled into the wind. “Time to find the rebel queen.”