Gladiator Wolf
By
Marteeka Karland
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews. This is a work of fiction. All references to real places, people, or events are coincidental, and if not coincidental, are used fictitiously. All trademarks, service marks, registered trademarks, and registered service marks are the property of their respective owners and are used herein for identification purposes only. eBooks are NOT transferable. Re-selling, sharing or giving eBooks is a copyright infringement.
© 2014 Marteeka Karland
Editor: Katriena Knights
Cover Art: Marteeka Karland
Books are NOT transferable. Re-selling, sharing or giving eBooks is a copyright infringement.
In the Earth of the future, the privileged few build their wealth on the backs of slaves who are neither man nor beast. Those with gold to spare spend it at the Arena. Betting on the Warrior Shifters is the pastime of the elite. Captured for the sport of the masses, they have no choice but to fight or be killed.
Miranda is the daughter of one of the cruelest Gladiator owners in all the land, still her heart remains pure. She only wants to help heal those who have no one to look after them. The last thing she bargained for was catching the eye of the fiercest warrior of all- Brandwulr.
To Brandwulfr, the innocent Miranda is a way out of this godforsaken realm, a way to get home. He doesn’t need to be attracted to the silly little human. He shouldn't want her. Yet there is something in the softness of her touch that sets his blood on fire and awakens the wolf within.
Contents
Chapter One. 5
Chapter Two. 19
Chapter Three. 35
Chapter Four. 48
Chapter Five. 64
Chapter Six. 77
Chapter Seven. 91
Chapter Eight 103
Chapter Nine. 116
Chapter Ten. 131
Chapter Eleven. 142
Chapter Twelve. 153
Chapter Thirteen. 163
Chapter Fourteen. 173
Chapter One
From a distance the sands of the gymnasium sparkled like gold, mocking Brandulfr with their promise of fortune. Even in the darkness of the tunnels, he could see the lights beaming down from the very top of the structure, their illumination causing the grains on the ground to twinkle like the precious element, causing the surface to shimmer as if kissed by the sun. Too bad the sand offered none of the promise it projected. There would be no warmth to be found once he stepped on the surface—only pain and death.
Brandulfr hadn’t felt the pure healing rays of the sun for longer than he cared to contemplate; his body was weak from the lack their warmth. That didn’t mean he wasn’t stronger than the humans who sought his death this day, they always sought it whenever he was cursed to be put on display. As always, he’d slaughter any they set on him.
Leather encased his body like a lover’s jealous embrace. Perhaps it would be truer to say it choked his frame like a master assassin, killing him by inches as the humans could never do. Thick, padded leather underneath steel chain mail protected his torso while knee-high boots with greaves and bracers protected his limbs. All of it in jet black lined with gold threads and trims. A slave had nothing, but he’d managed to secure the best protection he could. His master had seen to the style, wanting his star fighter to look the part.
Turning his mind to the coming battle, Brandulfr prepared for the multiple opponents he knew he would face. All for the enjoyment of the crowd. He could hear the wagers being made, the comments and speculation as people around him looked to profit from his death. Could the Barbarian Wolf survive the Gladiator Warriors?
Gladiator Warriors. Brandulfr nearly choked on the title. He was stronger than all of them—the humans, that is. Had he not defeated their best men? Even with the damned collar around his throat that kept him from shifting into his wolf form, he’d not merely defeated every man they’d set against him, he’d massacred them in a flurry of sword and shield.
None of his battles ever lasted long. Brandulfr didn’t believe in drawing out the ordeal, no matter what his master wanted. Were he less of a fighter, he might have been punished for his disregard of the slaveholder’s orders. But he was Brandulfr, feared in the realm of humans and wolves alike. As a result, his prowess in battle was legendary. They came from all over the land to watch him fight or to pit their skills against his in hopes of winning the bounty his master had promised to any who could defeat him.
Brandulfr hated them all. If he wasn’t prevented from shifting to his battle wolf form by the cursed collar all shifters wore, he’d slaughter as many as he could before they killed him.
This was no battle, it was a game. A needless waste of sacred life. A game he played with deadly skill. As if the very Earth agreed with him, the ground beneath his feet seemed to rumble ominously. Not an overt movement, but the slightest tremor. It was likely the humans around him would never feel it. To him, it was a clear warning, heightening his already elevated senses for the coming battle.
Weapons and armor hung in racks in the rancid tunnels beneath the arena. Ignoring the stench of stale sweat, urine, and blood, Brandulfr chose his favorites, which had been set aside specifically for him. A double-edged short sword and a shield with a steel rim around the circumference were both his trademark. The rim around the shield had been sharpened to a deadly edge, the shield acting as a second blade as well as something to deflect blows. Though the humans knew his customary way of fighting, none had managed to defeat him, though many had exposed weaknesses. Brandulfr usually recognized his own weaknesses before the humans and shored them up. If not, he always used what he learned to improve his skill. Any weakness uncovered was always fixed and learned from. So much so that he could now wield a sword or shield with deadly precision using either hand.
Unlike most warriors, he preferred to forego a helmet, liking an unimpeded field of vision. Again, many had tried to exploit what they saw as a weakness, but Brandulfr always prevailed. This time would be no different. Before leaving the tunnels, he fastened his shoulder-length hair to the back of his neck out of his way. Going to one knee, he asked for strength from Tyr, hoping the god would hear his call. Even though he wasn’t going into battle, Tyr respected heroic glory, which fit this spectacle perfectly.
As he entered the arena, a roar of cheers erupted over the nearly deafening music. The booming blast assaulted his ears, but it couldn’t shake his pre-battle calm. As with any amusement, this show was played to the hilt. Entertainment for the bored and the debauched. Humans who had gathered to see the spectacle loved the driving rhythm of the drums and the harsh, screeching grind of electric guitars signaling his entrance. It fed their own inner animals. Lights flashed all around the stadium as people everywhere sought to capture his image. The bright bulbs flashing in his face reminded Brandulfr of twinkling stars in the night sky, making him miss the tranquility of his home for the briefest of moments. Bets were placed, money flowing like wine all around him in casual wagers on who lived and who died. Brandulfr could have saved them time, because the outcome was inevitable. He would be victorious. It was a story that had played out so many times Brandulfr no longer felt even the briefest twinge of excitement when stepping onto the sands of the stadium. Instead, a burning need to kill replaced the exhilaration that had once filled him.
With his mind firmly on the task at hand, Brandulfr knelt to sift the sands that had once seemed to sparkle with golden ligh
t through his hands. Up close the grains were coarse, rough, and soaked in the blood of men. Just like his soul. The sands and Tyr would bring him victory this day, but what would ever salve his conscience about what he had been forced to do to survive?
Keeping his eyes on the other side of the arena, Brandulfr waited for his opponents to enter. Watching how a man entered this place of pain and death often gave the best clues as to how the man would fight, how dangerous he was. At the announcement of the other fighters, the crowd offered up another round of cheers. Brandulfr ignored everything except the five men approaching him now. This was his primary objective; the rest didn’t concern him. Of the five, two concentrated on him rather than their surroundings. One played to the crowd, grinning from ear to ear as if he weren’t about to die. The other two hung back, unsure of themselves, their weapons, and their partners. Brandulfr’s keen wolf senses told him the last man had probably pissed himself on the way to the arena.
Brandulfr would attack the glory hound and the pisser first, getting them out of the way. Then he’d take the two experienced fighters. After that, the last one would probably fall on his own sword to guarantee himself a quick death. Patiently, Brandulfr waited while the noise built in intensity, the fighters facing him growing more tense with each passing moment as the announcer droned on, introducing the players in this deadly game.
It mattered little. Brandulfr would be victorious, and these five men would lie dead at his feet in a matter of minutes. Instead of allowing the surroundings to pierce his cocoon of deadly concentration, he zoned in completely on his opponents, watching the way they moved, the way they stood. Most importantly, he watched where their eyes traveled. Getting inside the opponents’ psyches before the battle began gave him a distinct advantage—one of many.
A shot rang out, signaling the start of the match. Brandulfr exploded into action, charging into the middle of the pack in a leaping sprint. The glory hound went down with one deadly arched stroke to the neck. Blood sprayed in a ruby shower over the other men close by, droplets wetting them before they realized what had happened. Never stopping his forward momentum, he plunged his sword into the chest of his second target in a thrust of pure power. The force made his weapon stick in the man’s rib, but Brandulfr yanked it free, shoving the man off it with a foot.
As Brandwulfr expected, one of the experienced fighters charged him with two swords, one whirling violently in either hand while the second combatant circled, planning to attack from behind. The only other human left was huddled off to the side, hands over his head protectively, wailing at the top of his lungs. The sand was wet in a circle around the cowering man, proof he had lost a battle with his own bladder. The scared human was a non-issue. Brandwulfr would deal with the man easily enough as soon as the other two were eliminated.
Swinging his sword in a wide arc, Brandulfr slashed out, using his shield to block a blow from one sword while the momentum from his own sword swing blocked the other, pushing the aggressive little human backward. Brandwulfr fought with intricate movements, a dangerous dance fueled by instinct and pride. Pride in who he was, who his people were. Never pausing, his feet moved in a choreographed ballet of death, leading his opponents to their doom with a carnivorous kind of beauty.
With a swipe of his shield, he sliced a three-inch-long gash all the way to the bone on the upper arm of the man wielding the two swords, knocking one sword from the man’s now-limp hand in the process. The man stumbled back, trying to pick up his lost weapon, but was unable to grip the heavy sword in his deadened hand.
The second swordsman regained his balance, charging with a brutal yell. Engaging in the fight again, he rained down two-handed blows on Brandulfr. It was a valiant try to drive Brandulfr back while allowing his partner time to recover. Twisting, then ducking under the second man, Brandulfr charged the downed swordsman before the man had time to realize his partner’s diversion had failed. With a devastating swipe of his shield, Brandulfr sliced the man’s throat all the way to the spine. Blood sprayed over Brandulfr’s face and chest like a fountain, the coppery smell washing over him along with the liquid, but he merely swiped at it with his forearm to clear his eyes. His vision was already red, his sole focus on one thing. Victory.
The remaining experienced fighter backed away now, not wanting any part of Brandulfr on his own. Too bad—it was already too late.
Snarling, he turned to the coward huddled in a pool of his own urine. “Do you not want to help your fellow human? Together you might have a chance.” That was a lie, but Brandulfr found that today, he needed to fight off this aggression that had been growing inside. He needed a challenge, needed to feel alive. This wearisome existence was straining his sanity; he needed a way to work off the steadily building weight.
The coward only covered his head with his arms and screamed louder, a shrill sound that reminded Brandulfr of birdlings from his own land. Once the remaining fighter realized he was on his own, he charged Brandulfr, engaging the fight once more. Swords clashed and sang with each bone-shattering blow, the crowd’s roar growing louder with each strike. Brandulfr bided his time, looking for an opening, the easy kill. The brute was handy with a sword, giving Brandulfr more than one scratch; however, he lacked the speed and strength Brandulfr possessed.
Minutes passed before the other man dropped his shoulder as he swung his sword in an arching slice, intent on taking out Brandulfr’s sword arm. Dodging the blow was child’s play, giving him the perfect opportunity to plunge his own sword into the human’s side as the man completed his downward blow. Blood poured from the wound like a thick crimson waterfall, coating Brandulfr’s sword. He’d obviously hit a major artery.
Pity demanded Brandulfr let the man die naturally after that. Withdraw his sword. Finish the final opponent and let this poor soul be. But pity would get a man killed when he turned his back. With that in mind, Brandulfr twisted his sword before pulling it free of the other man’s body. The fallen warrior screamed in agony, his face contorting with it. Brandulfr had no pity.
Approaching the remaining man huddled against the wall, begging for his life, Brandwulfr felt nothing but seething rage. Battle and blood lust ran hotly in his veins.
“Pick up your sword and face me. Die with honor,” Brandulfr bit out, giving the man room to maneuver if he chose.
“Please, I’m begging you! I have a wife! Children!”
Brandulfr tilted his head, confused. “You’re a slave then?”
“No! I was promised a quick payday. All I had to do was show up and they’d pay me once you were dead! I was never supposed to do anything! I had no desire to harm you!” The man whimpered, clasping his hands in front of him in a pleading gesture.
“You…volunteered to be here?” Again, rage built, the need to kill overwhelming.
“I was never supposed to have to fight!”
Any sympathy for the pale shadow of a man was swept away at the admission. This sniveling weakling had actually thought to profit from Brandwulfr’s death? Idiot. Before the man could cover his head with his arms again, Brandulfr struck, driving his sword into the neck of the still-whimpering man. Not so much of a quick payday as it was a quick death, far more merciful than the human swine deserved.
The crowd cheered, flashes twinkling like thousands of exploding stars all over the arena once again, the masses getting their snapshot of history, an immortal representation of the victorious gladiator as he spat on his last victim. It all sickened Brandulfr.
As his keen wolf gaze roamed the stadium, he sought the man responsible for this mockery. Ruldolph, the man who owned Brandulfr along with roughly half the shifter slaves fighting this night. The slaver pitted shifters against free men, offering a bounty to any free man who could defeat what humans considered animals. The more renowned the slave, the better the payout. Naturally, Brandulfr was the ultimate prize for these men. Ruldolph knew this, capitalizing on the infamy of his prized “possession.” He lured men to their deaths the same as any mass murderer. Af
ter his first fight, when he realized exactly what Rudolph did to men and women in this world, Brandulfr vowed he would kill Rudolph before he left this vile place.
In the past, Brandulfr had made his contempt known, but it only got other slaves he cared about killed. When he stopped caring about anyone, they beat him for his defiance. Now, he saved his strength, biding his time until the day Rudolph let his guard down enough for Brandwulfr to take a clear shot at him. That’s all it would take and the man would be dead.
Now, Rudolph stood on the balcony just above the arena, the place of honor reserved for the sponsor of the games. He was the perfect target. Not too far away from Brandwulfr—only about fifty meters or so. One true throw of his sword, straight through the neck…
Then a flash of gold caught Brandwulfr’s eye. A young woman approached Rudolph’s side, grasping his arm. She wore a cloak of midnight woven through with and trimmed in gold. Her hair shone as brightly as the golden strands of her cloak, framing a pale face with lips of ruby red. A beseeching look graced her face, as if she were pleading with him for something. Probably wanting Rudolph to give him to her as a prize. Brandwulfr sneered. It wouldn’t be the first time a highborn lady had sought to know the pleasures he could offer. None of them had gotten what they’d expected, but he had left all of them sated.
It was a shame. The girl was passingly pretty. In another life, he’d enjoy introducing her to the carnal side of sex. In this one, if she were related to Rudolph in any way, she would die by his hand.
Her hair was bound loosely at the back of her head in a thick knot of shining gold. Skin of milk white shone under the harsh lights of the stadium, encased in emerald silk beneath the cloak. She was too thin for Brandwulfr’s taste, though she had potential. A little fattening up would definitely do her good. As she spoke to Ruldolph, ruby red lips seemed to beckon Brandwulfr to taste.
Gladiator Wolf (Gladiators Book 1) Page 1
