by Angel Lawson
“Or we just go on our own. We can challenge the Morrigan. We’ve done it before,” Damien adds.
“And barely walked out alive,” I growl, low under the sounds of the crowd. There’s a murmur amongst the audience. Probably in anticipation of the next bout. They’ve no doubt been watching us and wondering why we’re here. “Morgan specifically asked me to return with an army. I cannot disregard her wishes.”
“You won’t have to,” a familiar voice says from the crowd. Looking up, I see Hildi pushing through the masses of people. Her eyes are ringed in red from grief.
“What are you doing here?”
“You need an army. I’m here to fight.”
The Shaman stands and looks her up and down, a glint of excitement in his eye. “She can take the place of the girl. You five against the Legion. If you win, you take their contract and do with them as you like. If I win? I own you all for another half century.”
We’ve made a makeshift circle and I thrust my hand in the middle, signaling my agreement to the bet. Damien follows, his tattooed hand on top of mine, Sam next, and then Dylan.
We look to Hildi and Dylan says, “It’s your choice. Don’t do this for us.”
“I’m not doing it for me,” the Valkyrie says, her voice thick with emotion. “I’m doing it for Andi.”
He nods in approval and she places her hand on top. A stack of five warriors making a pact for our lives and freedom. A sacrifice risked for a better world. The Shaman’s dark hand comes down on top and a flash jolts between us—tagging us as chips on the table.
“You have thirty minutes to prepare,” he says, with a wicked grin. “I suggest you use it to pray.”
13
Morgan
Rejuvenated from my encounter with Bunny, I pick an option from the Morrigan’s extensive list of activities surrounding the bonding celebration. Training exercises by the Morrigan’s men. It seems wise to check up on the competition.
Nevis said nothing once I left Bunny’s studio. It was clear I felt better physically while still warring with myself mentally. Whatever judgment she held, she kept to herself.
It felt wrong to use Bunny for his body. I mean, that was one of his betrayals. Using me for pleasure yet giving nothing in return. It had been one of the first signs something was wrong. Shouldn’t I feel guilty for doing the same?
These questions linger as Nevis guides me through the castle and out the back patio where I’m met with humid, warm air. We’re not outside—no, the climate is too harsh on the barren landscape surrounding the castle. This is more like a greenhouse—an enormous one with glass ceilings and walls that stretch as high and far as my eye can see.
Lush greenery climbs the walls. The scent of flowers mingles with the smell of straw, and I suspect livestock. It’s an entire world here—much like the one underground--and as I look around I spot familiar faces from Nevis’ home.
“What is this place?”
“It’s how she stays alive. Her heart may be cold and her soul as dark as the nights, but to survive she must have nourishment and keep her soldiers and staff fed.”
“Is it connected to your home?” I ask.
“Yes, the heat and water comes though pumps engineered by our people.”
We walk through the maze of gardens that go for miles. Some are filled with flowers and trees. Others have vegetables and a few unidentifiable fruits. The sound of animals calls from the other end. I see a large deer-like animal with horns grazing on a patch of grass. When it looks up, I see it has three eyes and two tails, and I hold back a startled gasp.
“What?” Nevis asks.
“The animals here are not the same as back home.”
She smiles. “I’m sure there are manyd differences.”
We reach a terrace that looks over a valley below. The field is made of dry grass, and men in black uniforms are clumped together. Fear trembles through me when I spot a figure bellowing at soldiers.
Casteel.
“So he is alive.”
“Dylan cut off his hand, but the healers were able to restore him to full capacity despite that.”
“Bunny functions with only one hand—one arm, really. I doubt Casteel will slow,” I say, watching him lash a whip at one of his men. From here, it looks like there are hundreds of soldiers, maybe more. I have no idea how Clinton and the others will raise an army large or skilled enough to take down the force below. I’m not even sure what to do with them when they arrive back.
Or if they will.
“Thank you for showing me around.”
“Do you think it will be helpful?”
“I don’t know. I’m sure the Queen added it to make me realize how powerful her army is. Just as she did this morning with the Darkness. It’s all just here to keep me off balance. To question my abilities and make me heel.”
“Yet you found a way around it this morning.” Her comment is pointed.
“I won’t give up,” is all I say to her. “Not now. Not until the final moment, and I’ll do what it takes to keep fighting.”
14
Sam
Thirty minutes isn’t much time to prepare but it’s also just enough time to panic. Or maybe that’s just me, I think, looking at my brothers and Hildi as we wait in the changing room.
“Any idea on how this will go down?” Clinton asks.
“I do,” Hildi says. “I owed the Shaman for some gambling debts a few years ago. I paid them off by working the back. Including handling the Legion.”
“What do you know about them?” Dylan asks. “I’ve only read about them in texts, as part of the greater mythology surrounding Camulus, the God of War. I’ve never seen them in person before.”
“The Shaman doesn’t use them for standard battles in the ring. He’s more likely to send them to other realms looking for fighters to come to Earth. Where do you think he gets so many participants?”
Damien removes his rings and tapes his knuckles. “They’re all in his debt, like us.”
“Exactly. The Legion are different. They were tossed out of the Immortal army for refusing to continue their barbaric ways. The Shaman snapped up their contract and they’ve been in his service ever since.”
“So they refused to stoop to Camulus’ brutality. Isn’t that a good thing?” I ask.
Hildi snorts. “They were part of an elite death squad. They had no civility. No moral code. They wreaked havoc and mayhem for centuries.”
“Sounds like the kind of soldiers the Morrigan would love to get her hands on,” Clinton says, standing and lacing his boots. “Too bad we’ll get them first.”
“Tell us anything you know,” I say to Hildi and Dylan. We have ten minutes and I’d like to be as prepared as possible.
“The mythology states that Camulus traveled the world to find the strongest fighters for the Legion. Each were known for their heroic last stands—something that probably caught Camulus’ attention. Most he collected on the battlefield, moments after their death. He granted them immortality and a spot in his special army. These soldiers cut a swath through the world with a particular kind of mayhem, but as we talked about, six men refused to continue and were released from Camulus.”
“Who are they?” Clinton asks. From the set of his jaw I can tell he wants to know everything he can about his opponents.
Hildi sits on the bench next to the lockers. “They’re a mixed lot. The one thing they have in common is a taste for blood. But to get it started, there’s Miya. He’s a Japanese swordsman who won his first duel at the age of twelve.”
“So he was a prodigy,” Clinton says.
“His opponent was a well-trained Samurai with a blade. Miya had a sharpened stick.”
Damien winces. “Ouch.”
“Then,” she says, “there’s Agis. He was known as the God of Death due to his refusal to die although severely injured. He kept fighting and allowed his army to get through.”
“What army did he lead?” I ask.
Dylan looks at
me. “The Spartans. For over a decade.”
“Total badass, then,” Damien says. Everyone nods.
“Next up, we have Roland.”
“That’s a wuss name,” Clinton snorts.
Hildi rolls her eyes. “He was one of the twelve peers of Charlemagne, who we all know was a ball-busting general.”
“So we have a Japanese sword-fighter, a Spartan, and an all-warrior,” Clinton says in a strained voice. “Perfect. What’s next?”
“Marshal, a famous knight known for sprees of murder and theft. On his deathbed, it was said that he bested over five hundred knights during his career, and took large swaths of land for his king,” Hildi replies. “That just leaves Armin, a German strongman that was basically unstoppable and destroyed everything in his path, and Rupert, the child prince who ran away and joined the army at age fourteen. He was so good, people believed he had supernatural abilities.”
“Did he?” I ask. I wouldn’t put it past any of these men to have demon blood.
She shakes her head. “Not until he died.”
“Great. How do we plan on defeating them?” I ask. “Because we have to defeat them. Not just for Morgan, but I don’t want to work for that bastard out there for another fifty years.”
Clinton stands just as the warning buzzer sounds from the ring. “We’ll beat them like we’ve beaten every other opponent tossed our way. One at a time.”
15
Hildi
The doors of the training room open and for a moment I’m struck still. The volume of the crowd hits me first, roaring like a freight train, so much that I almost recoil at the vibrations. But that’s not what startles me. It’s the arena that has replaced the old warehouse with metal bleachers soaked in beer and sweat. The stadium is wide and circular, the ground covered in sawdust and sand. The seats reach the ceiling, which is wide open, revealing a dark, starlit sky.
“Dear gods, what sort of witchery is this,” one of the men behind me mutters. I look over and take in the sight of Dylan wearing traditional warrior armor, the thick coil of his whip hung at his hip. A ripple through the crowd brings me back to myself and I note the weight in my hand and lift the sword—a Valkyrie blade—and the heft of a shield on my back.
A quick glance shows me the others are outfitted similarly. Helmets, shields, chainmail linked over their broad, strong shoulders.
We’re in a tunnel, the sort that leads to the center of the arena. The Shaman clearly saw fit to make a spectacle of our competition. Why not? The fight will become the stuff of legends. The sort Morgan and Dylan will write in their history books for future generations.
All the more reason to be the victors.
The doors behind us close with a loud slam, the bolt thrown to ensure no escape. I came to this fight to do what is required to bring down the Morrigan. To force her to pay for what she took from me. The image of Andi’s final breath is seared into my brain, my heart, and I felt the pain of the thousands of other deaths in the city before the cure made it into the right hands.
Morgan didn’t fail me. Neither did her guardians. The Queen of Darkness must be tamed once and for all, and if that means bringing a crew of ruthless murderers into her realm, so be it.
“It’s magic,” I say as a reminder. Surely they know. It’s not their first time in the ring nor experiencing the Shaman’s mysticism. “We fight to the death.”
“All six,” Clinton grunts from behind a silver facemask. His gray eyes hold mine.
“I feel the eye of Odin with me,” I tell them. “Thor’s power flows through my fists. And Freya’s lust for new souls in my blood.”
There’s no buzzer—not in this arena, but something louder—a gong--vibrates that the time has come. The Shaman appears in the middle of the stadium and he waves us forward, just as he waves his hand toward the opening on the other side of the field.
As though they appear from the ether, six magnificent males stride forward and the crowd falls into a hushed reverie.
Instinctively I grip my sword and I feel the others shift into a defensive position around me. I’ve seen the Legion before. Mentally, I understand their strength and immortality, but being on the ground with them, in their presence, even while surrounded by the strongest fighters created by the hands of gods, is humbling.
Miya’s long black hair trails behind him. His goatee is trimmed and highlights the sharp lines of his jaw. His outfit is solid black. His feet are bare. Leather straps around his chest and the hilt of his sword juts over his shoulder.
Next to him strides the God of Death, Agis, carrying a metal helmet adorned with a razor sharp spike across the top. He’s clad in a tight leather tunic and pants, thick-soled boots, and a silver-tipped spear gripped in his free hand.
My eyes skim over the others, trying to take in their weapons, their stature and size. I’m looking for weak spots I know I won’t find. Anything to get the upper hand. Rupert walks forward in fighting leathers, brown leather gloves and boots. A quiver of arrows hangs from his back, a bow down by his side. He’s next to Armin, who has on form-fitting armor from the neck down. His eyes are so blue they shine like sapphires even from a distance. His beard is thick and blond, his hair shaggy around his ears, and he’s built like a godsdamned tank.
Rounding out the edges are Roland and Marshal. Roland is thin and lithe. I won’t underestimate him. His reputation is that of a sadist, although it seems impossible. He looks the youngest of them all with dark, curly hair and pink cheeks. The glint in his eye and the slight tug at his lips confirm that he’s eager for the bloodshed to begin.
And then Marshal. It’s impossible to get an estimate of his expression with a full helmet covering his face. He moves smoothly even though he’s carrying his body weight in armor, including chainmail around his neck, as well as a sword and shield in his hands.
There’s an energy that rolls off of them. I’ve felt it with the Ravens when they’ve fought in the ring. But this…this is different. For the first time, I really question our decision to make this bet.
I feel separated from my body as the Shaman announces the terms of the fight. My sword is weightless as the guardians secure their armor. The only signal that the battle has started is the vibration of the gong, the Shaman disappearing, and roar of Clinton racing past me, declaring his loyalty to Morgan.
Pulling the shield off my back I follow the men into battle, prepared to meet my destiny.
16
Morgan
After the walking the castle’s grounds I fall into a deep sleep, napping before dinner. I dream I have wings, with long black feathers that guide me from this world back to my own. The sensation of Earth fills my senses. The smells. The air. The warmth of humans and society. Spreading my wings, I soar over The Nead, my stomach lurching at being so close to home, at once both excited and homesick. The kind of sensation a dream gives you—when you know it’s not real. But you want it to be, so badly.
It only takes a moment to realize the house is empty. I circle, arcing over the park until I catch the faintest of scents. Then I race over the city, eyes scanning for my mates. I follow their trail to a familiar part of town. The warehouse trembles with excitement. They’re at the fights—no, in the fights. Landing on a ventilation ledge, I peer inside.
The ring is no longer a ring, but morphed into something larger. From the inside I’m not looking through slats in a window but sitting atop a massive arena. Below, gods below…I spot six enormous fighters clashing with five familiar bodies.
The crowd screams for bloodshed, swords crash against one another. Dylan squares against a dark-skinned man who wields his sword like a second hand. The whip unfurls in my guardian’s hand and the sound of it lashing out creates a rip in the night.
I scan the others, terrified to watch any one fight; Damien, Sam, and Clinton each grunt, defending. And then in the middle, as though she’s always been there…Hildi.
I have no doubt that her being here means one thing: Andi is dead. The way she goes
after a man twice her size is the only proof I have. Vengeance is in her every move. I feel her pain all the way up here.
Movement catches my eye. The warriors below continue to circle one another, taking the occasional shot. I duck my head when a massive opponent brings down his weapon on Damien, a large mallet that looks as if made of stone. Damien is fast. Agile. I don’t want to watch. I don’t want to see this.
Why? Why are they here?
“For you,” a voice says next to me. I look over and see another bird, a large falcon, perched on the thin ledge. The voice is familiar: the Shaman. I open my mouth to speak but words do not come out. I’m a bird, for Christsake.
But even though I have no voice I do hear him, and the words formulated in my head are communicated back.
“They’re here for you,” he tells me, nodding his beak below where the battle rages on. “They made a bet looking for soldiers for your army. If they win, they get to keep the Legion.”
“If they don’t?”
“They’ll be in my debt.”
I look down to see if I can get a sense of who is winning. It’s impossible with so much metal and steel. “And Hildi?”
“She asked for a spot on the team. I always knew she was a champion.”
“Do you think they’ll win?”
The instant I ask this I hear the sound of a body dropping hard. One of the warriors has fallen. Blood drips from Clinton’s sword. He never hesitates, jumping into the next battle. Now the numbers are even.
“I never underestimate your Ravens,” he says. “Neither should you.”
“Why do you think I underestimate them? I have complete faith.”
“Do you?” His beady brown and yellow eyes stare at me. “All of them?”
I look down once again. Dylan yanks his whip, disarming the soldier he’s fighting. In a blink he has the man bound and a knife pointed at his throat. Damien lunges nearby, sliding across the sandy floor, getting the upper hand on his opponent, while Sam has one constrained in the crook of his elbow, one hand on his head. The sound of his neck snapping is clear over the roar of the crowd.
