by Abby James
Fighting amped a man’s adrenaline, so he walked a thin line between savagery and control. He needed to harness the former’s wildness while remaining in the latter. Juggling the fine balance took years of practice and meditation. It was the secret to succeeding, something most missed.
Chett entered quietly and stood waiting by the wall.
“Is he ready?” Sargon asked.
“No.”
Sargon stood and walked over to where the Dark Sisters hung on the wall. He took them down and savored their weight in his hands. His muscles tensed to accommodate, remembering the experience. “No one is ready to meet their fate.”
He swung both with ease, wielding them with the familiarity of a lover before running through his paces. His muscles responded to every move. He slipped again into his meditative state, unaware of the room he was in and the company, focusing on his body, the swords and how it felt.
After enough time, he stopped and returned one of the two to its home on the wall. On passing Chett standing by the doorway, he said, “It begins,” as he walked by.
He walked the curved passage of the underground, winding upward to the arena. Both men would enter from separate places, neither having to face the other until they were standing on the dirt in front of the crowd. This was to help preserve the element of surprise, which was their prerogative. Each man had a choice of weapons. Neither would know until the last what it was they would face in the arena, which meant, for a lesser soldier, unhinged nerves when he was forced to adjust his tactics to match his opponent’s weaponry. There was never any surprise with Sargon, one of the Dark Sisters his only choice of weapon.
Sargon had walked this path many times before. For Walcott it was new.
The air dried the higher he climbed until he reached the wooden gates barring his entrance into the arena. A thin line of sunlight ran along the floor, another at the top, delineating the gates. Once he crossed the threshold into the day, for one it would be all over. There was no turning back.
The joint nation was founded on combat in the Arena. The four rulers that resulted from the great war had fought to gain a place in the hierarchy of the military here long before they fought each other on the battleground. In the aftermath, which had almost annihilated everything, the survivors formed their own territories, taking with them the traditions they wished to hold. In their new lands, the rulers of the remaining three territories left the idea of finding a leader through combat behind, along with the Arena, and devised their own methods.
Turmenian held tight to its military tradition, creating the council many years later, when their enemies had long retreated behind the invisible lines they’d agreed upon. The other tradition to be retained was the courtesan. Madame Lorraine stood at the end of a long line of madames in the erotic arts.
Using both his hands and all his strength, Sargon pushed open the gates into the sun, which glared down harshly against his eyes after having spent the last few hours in the dungeons. It would take him seconds to adjust. At the far end, Walcott stood waiting, a quilblain in his hand. It seemed a fitting weapon for his end, although not a weapon that would save him.
Sargon studied him as he walked farther into the arena. It was necessary to determine a man’s frame of mind. His stance and movement before the fight began were everything Sargon required to understand his opponent’s will. Walcott felt fear. His mind would be swimming in chaos, unable to fix on a defensive action.
For most at this point, attack was the only option they believed they had. But excellent defense was crucial. It undermined the attacker’s concentration and severed his belief in his ability. Then mistakes were made. Weakness could be exploited.
The arena was choked with the population. Level-three combat drew all. The councilmen were present, each no doubt hoping to see his end, for it was the only way they could be rid of him. He kept them all in his periphery. Now was not the time for distraction.
It was as if the air held its breath. Silence and a sea of faces.
Sargon moved toward him. Walcott came too, matching Sargon’s stride, meeting in the middle. His stance belied the turmoil inside. Sargon looked into his eyes. What did he see? Loathing, fear. Both emotions would run free while his blood soaked the soil. It pained Sargon to see the understanding in his eyes, but there was no choice and Walcott knew that. At the third level of combat, only one could walk away from the Arena. The rule was set in stone before Sargon was the one who decided the code. Everyone knew this. It was the reason they came. People wanted bloodshed. They wanted a hero. But none of them understood where to find a true hero. It wasn’t here in the Arena.
Walcott moved first. Faced with his death, fear destroyed a man’s patience, then judgment. He’d chosen the wrong weapon. Perhaps he was attempting to make a stand, but it wouldn’t help him. No doubt there would be another weapon concealed somewhere. A dagger tucked in his leather belt at the back. The rule of level-three combat stated there were no rules. A man did what he had to do to survive. If deception was what he needed, so be it.
Walcott remained outside of the swing of the sword but within the strike distance from the tip of the whip. He lashed it with speed. The metal chain snaked in the air, the tail falling to strike.
Sargon arched backward so the snap broke the air over his face. Walcott paced sideways. Sargon paced in opposition. They circled. The whip cut through the air again, aiming for Sargon’s side. It was too slow. In his arrogance, Walcott made a valuable mistake. He wished to prove a point by choosing his weapon, but it took more energy to wield a whip than a sword. Sargon need only dance out of reach until Walcott exhausted himself.
The fight had just begun, but already Sargon felt the darkness within him. He tried to keep his meditative focus on Walcott’s movements, but instead it tunneled along the sounds of Walcott’s racing heart, the slush of his blood pumping through his veins. Sargon tightened his grip on his sword, as if it was a barrier that kept him sane, kept him from leaping onto Walcott and ripping out his heart.
The next time the whip sailed his way, he raised his sword. The moment the end connected with a heavy clank, it wrapped around the blade. Without waiting for Walcott’s reaction, Sargon pulled back on the sword with all his force, catching Walcott by surprise. The whip was yanked from his hands. Sargon lowered his blade and the quilblain slid to the dirt floor.
Walcott reached both hands behind his back. When they emerged, he held a dagger in each hand, three hands in length. He dropped lower and circled again, his features twisting to malicious intent. The quilblain had been a stunt. He’d planned on it being a distraction.
He lunged, a dagger striking forward. A loud clang as metal met metal. They fell apart. Walcott still on the attack, he lunged again. Swiped with one, employed the other at the last. The first a feint, the second the lethal blow. He was unpracticed with duel wielding, and his timing was out, his balance off—only noticeable by someone who had mastered the art. The daggers swung through air. Walcott staggered forward with the effort of his strike. Swinging at emptiness meant more wasted energy. He moved within the mark of the Dark Sister. Sargon let him live. Walcott missed the mercy Sargon gave. Sargon saw it in his eyes. He was lost now. The blind rage had consumed him. He attacked again and again, his movements becoming desperate.
To be a military instructor, a man needed talent and skill. So although time made him sloppy, he was still good. It was the only reason one of his daggers pierced Sargon’s flesh, a straight line across his chest. The pain radiated through Sargon’s body, heightening his senses. He was shocked by the snarl that ripped from his lips. Beyond the snarl was a roar of rage, but to let it out would fling him loose of the bounds of sanity. He would become the darkness inside.
Panting like a dog, he hauled himself back from the brink. His muscles screamed action, but his mind held him in check. Precise movement and calculated care were all he needed. Ignoring everything, he centered his mind.
Both dripped sweat, spat phlegm onto th
e dirt and continued their dance. Walcott’s eyes flared with the flow of Sargon’s blood. This was the time he would start to make mistakes, becoming overconfident.
Driven wild with exhilaration at the sight of Sargon’s blood, Walcott struck again, flinging his body through the air and following the arc of his blade. The dagger met steel, the sword the mightier of the two. It was thrown from Walcott’s grasp. His body was impaled on the Dark Sister. Not in the stomach. In the leg. Sargon had lowered the tip at the last, and it took every ounce of his mental control to do it.
Walcott fell to the ground, screaming in agony, the Dark Sister prodding through to the other side, straight through the flesh of his thigh. A wound that would damage the muscle beyond repair.
Sargon placed a foot on Walcott’s thigh below the wound and, using both hands, withdrew his sword amid wails of pain. Walcott lay motionless, unable to move under the onslaught, his blood seeping through the hole in his leg. The earthy metallic smell raced up Sargon’s nose, sent his pulse into overdrive. Saliva dripped from his lips. The urge to descend on Walcott shocked his body. For a nightmarish moment, he saw himself covered in Walcott’s blood, his teeth stained red from his feast. Instead, he spat the saliva out and wiped the dribble on the back of his hand as he backed away.
For the first time since entering, he heard the people shouting and jeering. Their chants were for him to end Walcott’s life, but Sargon lowered the Dark Sister so the tip rested in the dirt.
He looked at the council. Stoney faces stared back.
He turned and walked away. No one would die here today. Today he developed the code of mercy, because if he crossed the line, he would never come back.
Chapter 21
“The council is in uproar. He goes too far. To override history. Who does he think he is?”
Merriala placed a hand over Archard’s as a supposed show of support. If he saw it otherwise, she didn’t really care. Why should the old fool be surprised? Sargon had been flaunting his insubordination before the council for years and all they ever did was give out empty warnings. They were powerless against him. The public was behind him. Even after today’s stunt, the majority would still support him. Sure, the crowd was screaming for blood, but the reports that filtered back to her showed the people had soon gotten over their disappointment at not seeing a kill and accepted Sargon’s mercy as the sign of a great ruler.
Merriala had wasted her efforts on Archard. She understood this too late. Of all the council, he’d been the loudest, speaking against Sargon’s authority. She’d thought he was the one to side with. The one who would actually put a stop to Sargon’s increasing flagrance of the council’s rule. But he was, in the end, nothing but hot air, vacant words, fearful of action.
Each of them feared too much for their position on the council. They spent more time bickering amongst themselves and attempting to earn support from the others within the council, hoping to retain their place, than thinking about what went on outside their narrow world. All this internal focus meant nothing of substance got done.
Merriala always got her way. And her desire was to see her son destroyed as he had destroyed her. She could never claim her rightful place as mother to the commander-in-chief because of his accusations. She was forced to sneak into Archard’s apartments because the sniveling man was without a backbone.
Her need for revenge went deeper than blood ties. It was time to renew her efforts with King Idrus, who was already captivated by her charm, alone. Contact was difficult, but the challenge had made her strive harder until they had both found a way. Of course, she risked exposure and so had brought Archard into the plan, maneuvering her own involvement until it became invisible should they ever be detected.
With all subtlety, she’d tried to persuade him to accept her as his courtesan, but King Idrus was cunning and cautious. Her initial attempts he had viewed with suspicion. Courtesans did not exist in the northern territory, so he’d thought it a plot by the council to plant a spy. She needed to treat him with as much care as she had done Rayce, her husband, Sargon and hopefully Sebastian, plus every other member of council she had tried to win to her course.
King Idrus was a thrill. Proud and strong, as Rayce had once been. With enough time, perhaps she would finally reach her pinnacle, the place she was meant to be. A ruler’s wife. Of course, she would prefer it if the rule was over the western territory, but any rule would suit, for now. And if Idrus managed to win this war, well, she would rule over both. And in time, Idrus would venture south and east, conquering all with her by his side.
“Time will tell if his actions with Walcott have won him greater loyalty.”
“What does it matter, woman? Don’t you see what he is doing? He plans to follow in Renus’s footsteps. The only problem being his popularity will win him the support he needs to crush us.”
“He already has the support he needs. You’re a fool if you think otherwise.”
Merriala had never been so rude. The resultant shock reflected on Archard’s withered face made her laugh. A cruel, bitter laugh—nothing inside of her was ever happy enough to lace the sound with mirth.
“Oh, Archard. You and your council have hidden behind your tower walls conniving against each other long enough to lose the reality of what’s unfolding around you. Sargon has always held the people in awe. They see him as their savior. Don’t you understand? It’s always the man of action who everyone sees, who everyone will hail as their hero. He is young and powerful whereas you are old. No one cares about old men.”
Archard lashed out and grabbed her braid, yanking it hard so she was forced to arch her head backward. Merriala was accustomed to this treatment. She was the kind of woman who managed to bring out the worst in a man. She maintained her smirk.
“You forget who you speak with, woman.”
“And you forget who you threaten.”
He sat up and pushed her away. She kept the smirk and straightened her robes. He would weaken and want to fuck her after this conversation was over, regardless of what she said. Such was the power of sex. The knowledge gave her the words she wanted to say.
“I will speak the truth. Sargon’s mercy will give him greater support amongst the people. Some within the military may see it as weak and perhaps seek to challenge him, but at the moment, there are none his match, so don’t hold your breath for a quick removal. Even if someone manages to defeat him, we run the risk of another like Renus, and believe me, that is not my son. I believe someday Rayce’s son will be his undoing. But we don’t have the time for that. At the moment, our greatest hope is with the north.”
“King Idrus will destroy us all.”
“Why are you barking so? He has promised you a high place in his ministerial, has he not?” She collapsed at his feet. “You are to administer the western territory in his stead.”
“And you his wife, no doubt.”
“The highest position a woman can obtain.”
“Don’t make it sound so humble. You know as well as I the influence you will have.”
Yes, she understood. The little smile creeping across her face reflected the joy inside. A dark joy, nothing that softened her heart. Perhaps she should hold on to Archard. He might still have his uses.
“Sargon and his friends have met the girl,” she said.
“I’ve heard they are training her for the Arena.”
The acid in her stomach threatened to crawl up her throat. “She must be removed,” she spat.
“Steady now. Our priority is with the north. If she goes missing, Sargon will suspect you.”
“I will not let her win.” She would not become the wife of the most powerful man in the territory. Not when that title had been denied her by the girl’s mother. And married to her son. The blow could not be crueler.
“Put your vengeful heart aside, Merriala. I’m warning you. What does it matter if the girl ends up in his bed? Your son will be destroyed and her with him and his close friends. Their blood will mark our victor
y.”
The problem with letting men too close was the knowledge they gained. Merriala prided herself in holding separate the real her from the actress she needed to be to make good in this world. However, some men were better than others at reading through the cracks every disguise inevitably carried. Logan had adored her, but then he’d been easy to handle, no challenge at all. She’d heard the whispers, Rayce cautioning him against her. But Logan had defended her and look where that got him.
“As you say, Archard, darling.”
Mollified somewhat with that promising vision, Merriala’s fury ebbed. But Archard would never know the extent of her hatred. The girl’s mother—she could not bring herself even to think her name—had been a nobody and her the prized courtesan, yet Rayce had chosen that bitch over her. The rejection had burned a hole in her heart so great nothing would mend the wound but death—the ultimate victory. And now the girl was placed conveniently at hand. She would communicate with King Idrus and gain his help in destroying the bitch’s spawn.
Chapter 22
Chett wove through the streets of Fortescue, one hand on the wheel of his car, the other resting on the gearshift. I stared out the window in front but couldn’t help but cast sneaky glances sideways at him, tracing a line over his strong profile and down to his powerful frame packed snug in his black pants and shirt. His sandy-blond hair was cropped short, military style to less than an inch above his scalp, which accentuated his angular features. He’d been put together with a lot of striking features, but his deep blue eyes captivated me the most. They were the color of the open-air baths, and perhaps just as cool and refreshing if I were given the chance to dip inside. While Sargon’s eyes were filled with danger and Ryker’s a mischievous challenge, Chett’s eyes were filled with promise.