Lion of Zarall (Twilight of Blood #1)

1. LION

1

LION

He knew it was over when he blinked and stared at the severed hand at his feet.

He had learned to take his time waking up from the Rage. His senses rushed back to him all at once, but he only focused on one at a time. The harsh sunlight glaring off the bloodstained sands. The smell of sweat, leather and death filling his nostrils. The taste of blood and bile, coppery and bitter, lingering on his tongue. His muscles aching with a fatigue that hinted at the ferocity of the battle he could not remember.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Not even fragmented images of the battle survived the Rage that had consumed his mind. He didn't even remember how he fought, only that he won. Otherwise, he wouldn't be standing here, waking up from it.

Opening his eyes again, he surveyed the mutilated remains of his opponent. He wondered what it would be like to die while Raged. His heart pounded in his ears. The roar of the crowd was distant at first, then it crashed over him like a wave. They cheered and chanted the name he was given.

Lion of Zarall. Lion of Zarall. Lion of Zarall.

Finally feeling steady enough, he shifted his weight to wipe the blood and sweat off his face. Although it was only mid spring, the battle had left him overheated and breathless. When he lifted his arm, a sharp pain flared in his left shoulder. He didn't look, didn't even falter. He pushed through the pain and wiped his face.

The eyes of the thousands in attendance were on him. He didn't dare show them that he was injured. Minor , he thought to himself. It was only a minor injury. It was nothing. As he lowered his arm, he almost gasped at the pain. He kept his face a perfect mask of indifference. Minor , he thought stubbornly. It’s nothing.

He walked up to the grandstand overlooking the arena where his Owner was seated. It was separated by walls and soldiers clad in black and gold uniforms. Lion was used to hiding his discomfort. His shoulder ached with each step, as if an invisible hammer was pounding at it. But he kept his back straight, and his arms relaxed at his sides.

His lor’qas, an angled type of sword with a serrated blade, still rested in his right hand. He had a shield too, but he must have lost it at some point. He stopped directly in front of the grandstand. He dropped to one knee, his head bowed, and he raised his sword in salute. He suppressed the soft, warm flutter that he felt in his chest. This part of the battle, saluting his Owner like a free man, always made him feel that flutter. But he was quick to extinguish that emotion.

King Leonis Zarall accepted his salute with a slow nod. He was clad in layers of golden-black fabric, rich and opulent, designed to draw attention. His frail and aging figure was concealed beneath the loose garments and elaborate accessories, a deliberate attempt to distract from his physical weakness. His weak limbs and aching joints were a secret well-known within the castle walls but carefully masked from the public eye.

Lion stood slowly, his head still bowed. He turned from the grandstands and from the carnage he had painted at the arena, and he headed for the looming gates that led underneath the arena structure. The gates, named the Gates of Life, were elegant and imposing. They swung open slowly as he approached.

He kept his head high, his posture unwavering, despite the throbbing pain that threatened to undermine his strength. He blinked at the shadowed passage beyond sight from the prying eyes of the spectators. As he crossed the threshold, the roar of the crowd faded and was replaced by the cool, dark sight of the corridor.

Here, his team waited. A small group of trainers, physicians, weapons masters and guards. He could fool the spectators, but he couldn't fool them, especially Master Badimar. As soon as the gates swung shut behind him, Master Badimar's eyes landed on Lion’s shoulder. “How bad?” he asked.

“I am well, Master.” Lion’s reply was prompt.

“Like fuck you are.” Badimar took Lion’s blood-stained sword and handed it to one of his assistants. He then glanced at Sir Dramesh, one of the King’s personal guards who was assigned to ensure Lion’s and the team’s safety. “Sir Dramesh?”

Sir Dramesh answered from the door that led further into the arena structure. “We're clear.”

“Let's go.”

A group of guards, all armed to the teeth, fell in step around Lion. Badimar took his place next to him. The trainers and the rest followed behind.

Lion used to find it odd that all these free men, the King’s personal guards selected for their talent as well as their nobility, were ready to fight and give their lives to keep him safe. Not that he needed it. If anyone dared to ambush him in the corridors underneath the Switchblade Arena, which had its own security too, Lion was more than capable of defending himself. He didn't see the point of being escorted by guards. But he wouldn’t question the wisdom of free men.

The corridors were empty. Sir Dramesh and his men must have cleared it ahead of time. They didn't have to walk too far to reach the preparation room. Each beast and their teams were given rooms like this by the arena management as they waited for their turn to fight. Being the King’s champion beast, the room allocated for Lion was the most spacious and closest to the arena. Sir Dramesh and his men waited outside as Lion and the others walked in.

Located right underneath the stands, the steady hum of the crowd was a constant, oppressive presence in the room. Badimar had brought their own armoury and other equipment from the castle. Two racks displayed an assortment of weapons. Sharpening stones, whetstones, and various tools for weapons and armour maintenance cluttered a long table. Nearby, a barrel of water and a stack of clean clothes waited. Two stands held Lion’s spare armours, their metal plates polished and ready. The third stand was bare.

Master Badimar pointed at the corner of the room, where Lion usually stood as they prepared him for battles. He walked to the corner and faced the room, his hands relaxed at his sides and his eyes fixed on the ground.

Vanalten, the physician responsible for the King's beasts, approached him like a man with a mission. “Where?”

“His left shoulder,” Badimar said. He hovered nearby, his arms crossed over his stocky chest, a grim expression on his face.

Vanalten scowled at Lion’s shoulder, which was hidden under a shoulder plate. He waved his hand at the two slaves who waited nearby. “Remove his armour.”

The two men, both humble house slaves dressed in plain, earth-toned uniforms with worn leather belts and frayed cuffs, started undoing the straps that held Lion’s armour together. Both slaves were familiar. They were the ones who often helped with maintaining Lion’s armour and weapons before and after fights. The older slave with the weathered face and bony fingers had been around for as long as Lion came into King Leonis’s possession. Yet, Lion never knew the name their Owner had given the man. They had never talked, never even acknowledged each other. But the man’s presence eased Lion’s nerves.

As he stood still, letting them undo the straps, Lion distracted himself by staring at the tattoo on the left side of the old man’s neck. The faded ink displayed a plain, circular frame around a hand, marking him as a freeborn house slave. Despite being a freeborn, the faded colour of the ink suggested the man had been enslaved for longer than Lion’s age. His perfectly obedient manner was proof of that.

Lion had a tattoo on the left side of his neck too, though his was a more intricate circle of jagged lines, flowing curves, and sharp angles. The unique pattern of shapes and symbols framed a dog-like creature. The tattoo identified him as a purebred beast. A perfect warrior, bred and raised for the arenas.

Once the straps loosened and the armour came free, Lion braced himself for the pain he knew would come when they lifted the armour over his head. Although he didn't grimace, he couldn't help but clench his jaw. Luckily, the old house slave had stepped in front of him and concealed his expression from Badimar. Before the slave stepped out of Badimar's view, Lion relaxed his jaw again.

Next, they removed the padded jacket he wore under the armour, then they pulled the thick shirt over his head. Lion’s bare chest was damp with sweat and sand that clung to his skin. Arena sand always found its way under the layers of armour and clothes he wore. It was an irritation he had grown accustomed to as the old battle scars that adorned his skin. Among these marks, three brands on his chest stood apart, each made by hot iron that seared his skin.

The tournament brands were Caesh’s idea. During a drunken celebration following Lion’s first tournament victory, he had suggested that the Lion of Zarall should display on his skin every tournament he won, as a way of distinguishing him for the rest of his life. It would increase his value in the future too, if the King ever decided to sell him. The King liked the idea, and so, they had started the tradition of branding Lion for each major victory. He had three round brands in a neat row just beneath his collarbones, representing the three major tournaments he won: a stallion, a rose, and a maiden.

He would receive a fourth one, a sparrow for the Golden Sparrow Tournament, if he could win the next fight.

As soon as Lion’s chest was stripped, Master Vanalten pushed the slaves aside and ordered Lion to sit on the bench. He started with a visual examination first. Lion's entire shoulder and upper arm was a canvas of with dark, angry bruises. It wasn't bleeding, but it was swollen. Lion interpreted the lack of blood as a good sign, though Vanalten’s lips pressed into a thin line.

Next, Vanalten started poking various sections of Lion’s shoulder. He didn't bother asking Lion questions. He knew the slave would do anything to downplay the severity of the injury. Instead, Vanalten put one hand on Lion's neck, monitoring his heartbeat, and he kept a very close watch on his expression.

Badimar crossed his arms, standing as close as he could dare without annoying Vanalten. The other three trainers – Joharin, Caesh, and Doha – gathered behind him. They each held their breaths. Doha, their youngest, kept shifting his weight.

The two house slaves hung his armour on the empty stand. Moral, the armorer, was examining the integrity of the armour. He started replacing the left shoulder plate, which had a massive dent on it. As he worked, he kept glancing at Vanalten, as if expecting the physician to say Lion won’t need his armour today. Or ever.

A knot twisted in Lion’s gut. Minor , he thought as he tried so hard to breathe normally. Just a minor bruise.

“So, how bad is it?” Doha asked.

Vanalten grunted, but he didn't speak. Still carefully watching Lion's expression, he started moving his arm up and down and from side to side. The pain intensified, but Lion stared at the floor and kept his expression still. Vanalten lifted Lion's arm over his head, bent his elbow and pressed his palm against his. “Push,” he ordered.

Lion pushed against Vanalten's hand and pain exploded in his shoulder. It was so intense and unexpected, a small gasp escaped him.

“Shit,” Caesh cursed. He started pacing.

Doha leaned against the wall, his shoulders sagged. “It's bad, isn't it?”

Lion’s eyes widened, surprised at his lapse in control. He was ready to push through the pain, but Vanalten pulled his hand back. His bushy eyebrows knitted closer together. He resumed his examination, moving Lion's arm in different positions and instructing him to push.

Above the room, the crowd’s low hum intensified into a passionate cheer. The second semi-final battle had started. The winner of that battle was going to be Lion's next rival for the tournament final. Thousands had gathered in Brinescar for this event. To watch King Leonis's champion beast win the Golden Sparrow. If Lion couldn't fight, the King would have to concede and Lion would be in so much trouble, depending on the severity of the injury.

Badimar's face darkened as he continued hovering behind Vanalten. Moral tossed the shoulder plate at the table and stopped to watch the examination, no longer in a hurry to fix the armour. Even Sir Dramesh kept peering from the door he guarded. For long minutes, all they could hear was the spectators' muffled roar.

But all Lion could hear was his own panicked thoughts. Minor. It’s just a minor injury. It’s nothing.

Finally, Vanalten stepped back and sighed. “Well, good news and bad news.”

Lion's heart skipped a beat.

Vanalten waved his hand towards Lion's shoulder. “I can fix that. It's not permanent.”

Lion didn't let his relief show. He continued staring at his feet, his face perfectly flat and still.

“But only if he doesn't aggravate it,” Vanalten added.

Nothing changed on Lion's face, but his mind went cold and blank.

Doha scoffed. He waved his arm towards the arena. “How is he not going to aggravate it? He's got another fight in what? Less than an hour?”

The room went silent. Lion knew. He glimpsed the answer in Badimar's face, too. He understood what Vanalten suggested.

Doha took his time, but he caught on. “Oh shit.”

The soft sound of metal scraping against metal filled the room. Moral resumed his task of fixing the armour. He replaced the shoulder plate with a spare.

“You guys can't be considering this,” Caesh said.

Joharin, senior amongst the three assistant trainers, crossed his arms as he shook his head at Badimar. “It's risky. He might lose.”

“Might?” Caesh spat. “It would be like pitting a freeborn beast against a purebred beast.”

“A Raged purebred beast,” Doha added. He motioned his arm towards the arena centre again. “Whoever wins that fight, they’ll Rage him. No one is stupid enough to send their purebred Unraged. Especially against the Lion of Zarall.”

Caesh pointed at Lion as he spoke to Badimar. “And we'll send Lion Unraged?

“He will be at a disadvantage,” Joharin said. His objection wasn't as passionate as Caesh's. He was merely stating the facts.

“A big one,” Doha added. He pointed towards the arena again, as if they'd looked hard enough, they could see past the walls and watch the battle as it unfolded. “These are Blackmaw and Skullsworn. They are... They...” He scoffed. “Well, you know how brutal they both are. One of them will be Lion's next rival, and we'll send him out there Unraged? He won't win.”

“Well, if you Rage him, he might win.” Vanalten lifted a finger. “But it will undoubtedly be his very last fight.”

Lion's heart sank, though he suppressed the emotion. If he couldn't fight again, he would have no use for his Owner. He would be as good as dead.

He took a slow, measured breath and reminded himself that he only lived to serve and breathed to please. He would do whatever he was ordered to. He would accept whatever happened.

“So that's it, then,” Doha said. “These are the options? Let him lose and die, or help him win and become useless?”

They all looked at Badimar. He was the King’s Master of the Beasts. The head trainer. He would make the decision. Lion tried not to hold his breath. He inhaled and exhaled steadily.

Badimar stared at him long and hard. Despite being a head shorter than Lion, he was an imposing figure who made everyone feel small in his presence. Badimar was the best trainer Lion had ever served. He pushed the King's beasts to their limits while also prioritizing their health. He made sure they all received good meals, kept physical punishments to a minimum, and he generally followed Vanalten's advice.

That's why his decision struck Lion like a blow.

“We can't let him lose,” Badimar said. Pity flashed across his face, but it was gone when he looked away at Moral. “Get him ready.”

Moral nodded and did his last check of the armour. Vanalten pointed a finger at Badimar, then at the rest of them. “You all heard my advice.”

“Yes, it will go on the record.”

“The King will be disappointed to lose the best purebred beast he’s owned in over a decade.”

“He will be more disappointed to lose the tournament held to celebrate the Zarall family's hundred years of reign.”

“I will decide what would make me most disappointed.”

King Leonis Zarall’s entrance caught everyone except Sir Dramesh by surprise. Lion was the first to snap out of it and react. He dropped to his knees and pressed his forehead to the cold floor. The two freeborn house slaves did the same, while the free men in the room greeted the King on one knee, and with their heads bowed slightly.

King Leonis waved his hand impatiently. “Up.”

Lion stood tall, his hands clasped in front of him, his eyes firmly on the floor. The King looked him up and down, his eyes lingering on his shoulder, before he turned his attention to Badimar. “Shame on you, Badimar.”

“Your Majesty?”

“If it wasn’t for Sir Dramesh sending me the word, you were just going to throw away my investment without consulting me?”

Badimar shot a glare at Sir Dramesh, who simply shrugged and returned to watching the door. “Your Majesty,” Badimar said. “I was merely…”

“Shame on you for lacking faith in yourself. Have you not spent the last three years training this beast?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“If, after all this time, he is still unfit to face a Raged purebred beast...” The King walked across the room slowly, his steps measured and careful. He shook his head and clicked his tongue. “Then perhaps it is not the beast's worth in question, but your own competence as a Beast Master.”