by Lee Hayton
Finally, Shandra stopped struggling against him and allowed herself to be pulled up and out of the ring. Mal grabbed her face between his hands and pressed his lips hard against hers. Only one second, but he wasn’t about to go to his death without scoring a kiss.
Fire ignited in his belly, spreading out and down into his groin, spreading up into his chest. After her initial surprise, Shandra wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him closer. The crowd gave out another cheer, this time full of good-natured ribbing.
Mal pulled back, his face flushed and his heart beating even faster than it had during his run. “If I win, can I have another of those?”
Shandra wore a stunned expression on her face. She managed a shy smile and scraped a strand of hair behind her ear. “If you make it out of the ring, you can have a lot more than that.”
The man in the crowd behind wolf-whistled at her answer, a piercing noise that shattered Mal’s equilibrium and reminded him there was a job to do. He waved to the fellow, then vaulted over the railing to land in the hard-packed dirt. Another roar from the onlookers greeted his arrival.
“Mal!”
He turned as Shandra shoved her blade and shield through a gap in the metal grating. As he took them in his hands, the joy of plucking his mistress from the fight faded and reality returned with a crushing thump.
There was a fight in front of him. One that would be a challenging battle if he were in top form. Having made it to the castle on foot, Mal was already tired. Now the adrenaline of getting Shandra out of the situation was thinning out, he wanted to rest.
The warrior on the other side of the ring smiled, as though reading Mal’s thoughts. He banged his blade against his shield, once, twice, thrice, making the assembly cheer in exultation. Sweat glistened on the man’s bare chest. Either shaved for the occasion or just because that was how Wella preferred it.
“If the substitutions are over,” Wella called out with an amused snarl, “then the fight can begin on countdown. Five. Four.”
The crowd joined in with a chant. “Three. Two. One. FIGHT!!!”
Mal rushed toward the warrior, keeping track of the man’s eyes for clues to his forthcoming actions. The superiority of the opponent’s height and weight should make him slower.
A signal showed him about to swing left. Mal held to the last moment, then ducked right and ran behind the beast as his blade cut through empty air. Mal thrust backward with his own short sword, plunging it into the giant man’s calf.
Wella’s champion roared with pain at the attack, but Mal wasn’t fooled. It was the best strike he could manage, but it hadn’t gone deep. It hadn’t sliced through muscle or snapped a bone.
He shook the blood off his blade as he turned, taking a step to stay behind the warrior’s back as he tried to face Mal again. The ruse couldn’t last but the crowd appreciated the effort. When they cheered, the cries were for Mal.
With his opponent facing away, Mal couldn’t anticipate the man’s movements as easily. The warrior gave a surprise thrust behind him, making contact and slicing through the flesh of his thigh.
Mal staggered left, and the warrior swung around, blade whistling through the air. He raised his shield to ward off the blow but the heft of its weight forced him to one knee.
Another thrust and parry, and Mal scrambled to his feet, dancing back and around the edge of the ring to keep out of the giant man’s way. So far, so good, but his already tired leg muscles were screaming. In his condition, he’d be better off standing in the middle rather than running all over. A choice he didn’t have since that position was held by Wella’s champion.
He’d soon grow too exhausted to challenge, so Mal went on the attack. Tiredness made his movements clumsy. One blow went askew, only skimming along the top of his opponent’s shoulder. The warrior easily parried before it could cut into the man’s throat.
When Mal raised his shield to avoid another blow, his arm moved a second later than it should. A fire blossomed in his upper arm. Blood spattered, then flowed down to his fingertips—the slick liquid loosening his hold on the weapon.
Mal ran again, this time side-stepping at the last minute and getting a small thrust into his opponent’s upper thigh. When he repeated the gesture after turning, the man was prepared for him, hitting his shield against Mal’s forearm with such a strong blow that his grip on the sword loosened.
He shifted position, trying to grasp it properly, but his blood had made the handle too slippery. Mal willed the blade to stay in place with every fiber of his body, but it made no difference. He watched in horror—the world moving in slow motion—as his sword fell to the ground.
The warrior moved in with his full weight, charging at Mal and shoving him bodily so his skidding fingertips couldn’t snag the weapon. When he hit against the wall of the ring, Mal felt the man’s shield pressing up against his throat. A strange song whistled in his ears, canceling out the cheers and jeers from the audience.
He raised his knee and hit at the side of the warrior’s head simultaneously. The shield did more damage than his ill-judged knee. A stagger and Mal could breathe again.
When the warrior next came at him, he had just enough strength to raise his shield to avoid a blow to his head.
The sword lay five yards away, to Mal’s right-hand side. He could see it, could lay out a pattern of attack and defense that would lead him to its side, an opportunity to get back into the fight.
He didn’t have the energy.
With every muscle twanging, refusing his body’s commands for lack of oxygen, some bunching into tight clumps ready to cramp, Mal barely had the strength to sidestep the next running attack. As he staggered out of the way, he felt the slice of a blade tear his back from shoulder to waist.
Mal dropped to his knees.
A boot into his lower back sent him sprawling.
He tried to turn over, groaning, but another boot planted itself firmly on the back of his neck, crushing his face into the dirt. As the weight on it increased, Mal’s struggles lessened. Pinched nerves were sending commands to the wrong locations. His hands slapped uselessly at the dirt.
On the ground to his side, Mal saw a shadow warrior raise his shadow sword.
Chapter Fourteen
The tips of Shandra’s fingers brushed against Mal’s as she handed through the sword and shield. She would have passed him the blade hidden in her boot, but a hand gripped her upper arm and pulled her away.
“The overlord wants to see you.”
Dread encompassed her like a dark cloud. The dizzying walk around the levels up to Wella’s viewing box soon had Shandra’s head spinning. When the guard deposited her in front of the woman and took his leave, she had to resist the urge to call him back.
She didn’t want to be alone with Wella.
“Is that man down there part of the harem you now claim?”
Wella’s eyes bored into Shandra. She felt certain that even if she lied, Wella would see through to the truth.
“That’s right.” Shandra lifted her chin and moved her legs slightly apart. To feign confidence until it appeared had been one of her mother’s favorite tricks. “He and his four clan brothers.”
“They look rather familiar.”
It took all of Shandra’s efforts not to break the gaze. Of course, Wella would recognize Mal. She hadn’t placed his image on a wanted poster spread far and wide just to forget what he looked like.
“If I checked with my messenger boys, do you think I could find one who made a delivery to your doorstep a few months ago?” Wella’s expression turned to mockery. “Perhaps one who might have earned a generous tip? Could I use that as evidence if I wanted to raise a charge against you?”
“Mal was never part of your harem,” Shandra insisted, closing her eyes a second later as she realized the trap she’d walked straight into. Not that it mattered either way. The woman already knew everything she needed to. “I haven’t crossed the rules of harem. I was single and so were they.”
/> “Hm.” Wella stared down her nose at Shandra, then broke into a delighted smile. “Well, I must say you’ve brought quite a dose of unexpected entertainment into the proceedings. The crowd will be talking about this one for a while. Have a seat.”
The last words were a command rather than a query, but Shandra still tried to back out. “No, I couldn’t. I should get down to—”
Wella clicked her fingers, and a man arrived carrying a tray of wine and ale. “Nonsense. Sit and have a drink with me. It appears we have a lot more in common than I first thought.”
Shandra stared at the servant with a pleading expression but he wasn’t going to be able to help. With a sigh, she took a seat as far away from Wella as she could manage on the short bench. The woman just reached out and dragged her closer, leaving her hand on top of Shandra’s knee.
“I think your man has had enough time to prepare, don’t you?”
Before Shandra could answer, Wella stood up and shouted down to the crowd. As the chanting countdown started, she risked a quick glance into the fighting ring. Mal appeared tiny compared to the chosen opponent, Alnerrac.
She tried to swallow but couldn’t do it around the lump in her throat.
Shandra brushed her fingertips against her lips where the ghost of Mal’s kiss lingered. Although she’d been afraid to admit the truth to anybody, even herself, it was the thing she’d most wanted since the moment he turned up on his doorstep, a savior in the night.
And she had promised him more if he made it out alive.
Fear exploded in her belly as Mal ran across the fighting floor, headed straight for Alnerrac. As the warrior readied a blow, Mal ducked and ran under. The angle hid him from view but from the screams on the other side of the arena, he’d also managed to get a blow in.
“Your man has a few good moves on him,” Wella said, leaning forward. She’d already drunk her mug of wine and tossed the vessel to one side. “It’ll almost be a pity to see Alnerrac lay waste to him.”
“Perhaps you should wait until passing judgment,” Shandra snapped, forgetting herself for the moment. “Your man’s big, but he’s slower. Mal might finish him off with a few dexterous blows.”
“If he wasn’t already exhausted.” Wella sat back, arching an eyebrow at her guest. “Did you leave the man to run after you? The poor fellow is struggling just to catch his breath.”
Shandra turned back to the action, wanting to see where Wella was wrong. Instead, she noted the slump of Mal’s shoulders between movements, tiny pauses to indicate his body was stealing rest where it could.
She’d ridden away from the farm on Starburst, leaving Mal without transport. Had he followed her the entire way on foot?
“I need to swap out with him,” Shandra said and jumped to her feet. “We made a mistake. I said I’d be the one fighting, and that’s what should happen.”
“Too late.” Wella threw her head back and laughed as though genuinely entertained. “We can’t swap him out now or the crowd would go berserk. They’d tear you apart for spoiling their fun before you got near the ring.”
Wringing her hands in distress, Shandra turned her face away from the spectacle unfolding in the arena. If Mal ended up wounded, or worse, she didn’t want to bear witness. Bad enough to know it was all her fault.
“What if I change my mind and enlist?”
Wella didn’t make any motion to show she’d heard and in desperation, Shandra grabbed her by the arm. The crowd shouted, some people nearby rising to their feet, and Wella joined them, craning her neck to see better, though she had the best view in the house.
“Didn’t you hear me?”
Shandra shrieked, startled when Wella grabbed her chin and brought her face close. “I heard. It’s too late. Don’t you get that, love?” The word came in a cloud of spit, straight into Shandra’s face. “There’s nothing you can do now for him, except watch.”
Through eyes shimmering with tears, Shandra forced herself to turn and look down into the ring. She jumped forth, catching the safety railing in her stomach as she stretched her hands out toward Mal. Not that it did any good, he was dozens of yards away.
Mal lay prone, Alnerrac crushing a foot into the back of his skull. The warrior raised his sword, looking up to the crowd for permission or approval.
“Well, that was good while it lasted,” Wella said with a short laugh. “Though it didn’t last nearly long—”
The onlookers shouted, shrieked, screamed, roared. The shimmer in Shandra’s eyes turned into a shimmer on the ground. Alnerrac stumbled back as the form underneath his foot shifted, transformed, rose up in a different form than the one he’d stood upon a moment before.
Fire belched out in a cloud as Mal clambered to his feet, a dragon. Now, he towered over Alnerrac. The warrior frowned, looked up at Wella as if for guidance, then shouted in pain as the line of flame swept toward him, igniting the oil coating his body.
A second later, his cries cut off as a dragon’s claw sliced him apart, guts and blood spilling from the jagged wounds in his belly to splatter against the guard rails of the arena.
The next sweep of fire crackled and spat, catching the liquid drops of blood and burning it to dry ash. A scent of smoke and cooking meat rose into the air above the arena. Thick, rich, choking.
Half the crowd made a break for it, overturning chairs and knocking aside safety ropes as they catapulted toward the exit. A crush of bodies jammed at the exits, letting out only a thin stream of people from the bottleneck, crushing the rest flat against the stadium walls.
“Stop!” Wella rose to her feet and spread her arms out wide. The look of excitement on her face turned to fascination. As Shandra stared at the woman, her eyes opened wide to drink in every detail before her—swallowing it down and going back for more.
Wella called again for her people to halt, but nobody was listening. In the ring, Mal turned and fixed her with his kaleidoscopic gaze, hypnotizing her with his eyes.
With Alnerrac dying in front of him, Mal changed back.
It took a while for the crowd to realize. Even those who had stayed frozen in their seats, unable to run, didn’t immediately register the change. Shandra tried to push her way past the immobile guards but they blocked her way—too well-trained to dissemble just because the world had turned to chaos.
“You knew he could do that?” Wella demanded, abandoning her attempt to calm the crowd. She flicked her finger toward the arena floor. “You kept it secret he was a dragon shifter?”
Shandra nodded, sliding along the wall. The list of her resistance—accidental or purposeful—against the overlord started totting up in her mind. She’d avoided the draft by using her brothers. She’d hidden the men Wella sought for months, tried to take them into a harem. Today, she’d let Mal fight in her place, watched him slaughter the largest man in Wella’s harem.
“I’ve seen—”
“You knew and didn’t tell me?” Wella pressed Shandra up against the wall, the sour tang of wine mixed up with her warm breath. “The dragons are our enemies.”
“He’s a shifter, not a true—”
“I’m aware of what he is, no thanks to you. This wasn’t a fair fight! Your debt to me remains unpaid.”
Shandra pushed back against the woman. Of equal size and strength, the movement led to them grappling, neither one gaining control. Finally, Wella drew back her hand and slapped Shandra across the face.
“Alnerrac was my favorite. How could you let a dragon get into the ring, knowing what he’d do?”
With a gulp, Shandra stepped back, her knees hitting up against the bench until they gave way, and she sat. “I didn’t know he’d do that. I’m sorry. But this wasn’t a fair fight, either way. I tried to swap out with him, you wouldn’t let me.”
Wella’s face twisted into fury, then she buried it in her hands. When she pulled them away, all emotion had gone. She was back to the overlord. All powerful. All unfeeling.
“Is that a refusal to comply with my orders?”
>
Shandra shook her head. “You have no right to ask me to enlist when my side won the fight. According to law, I should be allowed to return to my farm. I’m raising crops that feed your people and your army. That should be enough.”
A snigger from Wella, who turned to look into the fighting ring. She winced at the sight of Alnerrac and his defiled corpse. Shandra followed her gaze and saw Mal climbing out of the ring.
“You took that man in, knowing I wanted him. His brothers, too.”
“I’m entitled to take a harem.” Shandra steeled her gaze. “They were accepted onto my farm before the messenger brought the notice.”
“Yeah, right?” Wella sniffed, tipping her head back when the corners of her eyes twinkled with moisture. “And if I believe that, I suppose I can’t come after them.”
Shandra wanted to say a million things, defend herself, tell further lies, put up every excuse for why Wella should let her and Mal return to the farm. Instead, she bit her lip and stayed silent, her gaze never straying from the overlord’s unreadable face.
“Okay.” Wella stood up, signaling to her guard to stand back from the door as Mal ran toward the box entrance. “Go back to your precious farm. I’ll send men at every harvest to collect a tax in produce, for the army. If you refuse them, we’ll end back at this arena, and this time you won’t be able to substitute out of the fight.”
“If it’s a fair tax, I won’t have to.”
It seemed Wella was about to answer, maybe give her a signal, maybe just answer her impertinence, then Mal burst through the side door and took Shandra into his arms.
As his lips touched down upon hers again, she thought of the apologies and explanations she still owed this man. The promises she still needed to extract from Wella. Then the heat from his passion moved into her body, quickening her heartbeat and making every muscle quiver.
For the moment, they were safe. Shandra clung to Mal, accepting his passion and amplifying it with her own.
Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this story, the next book in the series should be available for purchase shortly (or it’s available now and I’ve been too lazy to update this section!)
