Shadows & Flame Complete Boxed Set: Demons of Fire and Night Novels

by C. N. Crawford

  Cera spoke so softly, Ursula nearly didn’t hear. “The lord.”

  “Bael?”

  Cera nodded mutely, and Ursula’s world tilted. Her heart thumped hard, and she ran upstairs, snatching the silver ring from its spot on the dresser. Frantically, she rubbed it between her fingers.

  But this time, it brought her no relief.

  As Cera called for her, she ran out the door.

  Chapter 44

  Ursula gripped Sotz tightly with her thighs, guiding her toward the arena. The icy lunar wind whipped over her skin as she arced lower. Here, on the other side of the moon, no sun burned in the sky. Only the silver glimmer of stars lit her way, and the bright glow of the Earth, hanging in the sky like a vibrant gemstone.

  As before, torches burned before the platform, held by oneiroi. The crater’s seats crawled with demons and oneiroi. Oneiroi with great hunks of meat walked the aisles, shouting the price of a slice of roast. Oneiroi maidservants held trays laden with steins of beer.

  All along the benches, demons waved banners with the insignia of the houses they supported—a lion for Bael, a scorpion for Abrax, a satyr for Bileth...

  As she descended over the arena’s floor, a great whoop rose from the crowd. To her shock, the crowd began chanting her name. Apparently, they don’t hate the hellhound harlot as much as they once did.

  In fact, maybe someone from the crowd had a weapon they could lend her...

  Sotz touched down on the ground and she stepped off, surveying the space. As before, she stood alone in the center. She still wasn’t clear where they were supposed to go before the start of the duel, so she might as well start here.

  Hothgar stood on the platform, a silver cape billowing in the wind. He stared at her, his eyes completely black.

  And by his side, Abrax sat in a dark throne, just below the statue of his father. Abrax’s eyes had that same eerie, silver sheen as his father’s.

  Ursula turned, scanning the crowd, searching for a weapon. Didn’t any spectators bring swords to death matches? She couldn’t find a single sheathed weapon—not even a dagger. Panic stole her breath.

  Before she had the chance to give in to her fears completely, Hothgar sounded the gong. The knell reverberated through her bones, and her pulse began to speed up.

  Hothgar’s voice boomed across Lacus Mortis. “The dueling commences soon, a fight to the death. Only one man will remain standing.”

  He didn’t even bother to correct himself, to add in the possibility of a woman remaining standing. Anyone watching at this point would realize she didn’t have a weapon—that she was basically here to be slaughtered.

  Hothgar raised his hands to the night sky. “I call upon Zoth of the giant of Pleion, Inth of Alboth.”

  As Hothgar called out the names, the fighters strode from a dark tunnel on the side of the arena.

  “Bernajoux of Zobrach,” Hothgar continued. Ursula glanced at her opponent—her lanky, and apparently sadistic opponent—dressed in a starry doublet. As he took his place, he bowed to Ursula.

  “Valac of Phragol Mocaden,” Hothgar boomed. “Chax of Azimeth, our Phantom Rider, now known as the Gray Ghost.”

  Ursula’s stomach clenched. Bael hadn’t taken him out of the running? What the hell was his game?

  Hothgar smirked. “Ursula, the Harlot of Hellfire.

  “And, our last champion, is the reason we’re all here to today. The lord of Abelda, formerly the Sword of Nyxobas, will be fighting to retain his manor. Bael the Fallen.” Hothgar solemnly intoned.

  Ursula turned, her heart squeezing, and she watched Bael charge from the tunnel like an ox entering a bull-fighting ring. He wore a silver lion helm and a pair of thick leather trousers. No such protection guarded his tattooed chest, however. He strode into the arena shirtless, his godlike physique on full display. He’d left the bandages at home, and she got a full view of his lethal-looking tattoos: stars, lightning, a razor-sharp thunderbolt.

  How could someone blessed with such beauty and physical grace be so dead inside? Too much time in the void, obviously. The betrayal felt like a punch to her gut.

  But as he moved into the center of the arena, she studied him closer. In one hand, he clasped a silver broadsword, the same color as his helm. But in the other, the katana.

  He stopped just by her side, a thin sheen of sweat on his tawny skin, and she looked up at him, her heart slamming against her ribs. Beautiful and terrifying at the same time. A man who looked like a god, but had murdered his own wife.

  He held out the sword by the hilt. “Here.”

  Hope bloomed in her chest. For just a moment, she had the strongest impulse to throw her arms around him, but she remembered what Cera had said about his wife.

  She took the sword from him, her eyes moistening with tears of relief. “Why did you take it? I thought you were trying to get me killed.”

  He shook his head. “You still think I have no honor? I had it cleaned and sharpened.”

  She stroked her fingers over the hilt. “Thank you. You could have told me, I guess.”

  “I thought you’d have understood me better by now,” he said softly.

  “I don’t understand you at all.” A tear rolled down her cheek, and she turned away to wipe it off her cheek. She did not want the other fighters to see her crying, but her emotions were churning out of control.

  Ursula held up the sword, watching it flash wickedly in the starlight. She studied the steel for a moment—it did look sharper. She turned back to Bael, but he’d already taken his place at the end of the line of champions, just on the other side of Bernajoux.

  Hothgar held out his hands once more. “The eight that remain have proven their skill in battle and air. Today, the duels will test their prowess in single combat.”

  All around her, the crowd roared, baying for blood.

  “The contest begins with Bael and Zoth.” Hothgar nodded at the two demons. “Proceed to the field of blood.”

  Ursula’s mouth went dry. Not big on euphemisms here, are they?

  Along with the rest of the champions, Ursula stepped away from the center of the arena. She glanced at Zoth—a massive demon, his arms as thick as tree trunks. Furs and metal breastplates encased his gargantuan chest. In one hand, he held an iron buckler. In the other, a short bastard sword.

  He grinned, revealing a ragged row of teeth.

  Bael stepped forward, drawing his sword. Although Bael stood at least six and a half feet tall, the behemoth had a good foot on him. Still, Bael didn’t appear in the least bothered, despite the monster looming over him.

  “When I sound the gong,” Hothgar bellowed, “the duel begins.”

  An icy wind whipped over the arena, and a deathly silence fell. Even though she’d learned that Bael had slaughtered his own wife, she wanted him to survive this. Maybe he wasn’t a sociopath. Maybe there was some valid reason, like his wife was a monster who needed to be put down.

  But then, why would he keep her painting on his wall? And the wedding ring around his neck?

  What possible reason could someone have for slaughtering someone he loved?

  So that was the memory he was so desperate to run from, the one that tormented him.

  She watched as Hothgar lifted his mallet and slammed it into the brass gong. The crowd roared.

  Zoth slammed the flat edge of his sword against his own shield, in an apparent attempt to intimidate Bael. Zoth shifted his weight from one foot to another.

  His tactic didn’t appear to be working. Bael stood perfectly still. He held his sword loosely, his body perfectly relaxed. Only his eyes betrayed any tension as they carefully tracked the demon’s movements. Watching that penetrating alertness in his gray eyes, she began to understand the true meaning of predator.

  The air seemed too thin around her and then suddenly Zoth charged. Propelled forward by shadow magic, he aimed his sword straight at Bael’s heart. At the last possible moment, Bael swiftly stepped aside, like a toreador dodging a charging bull. But
his sword remained steady.

  In a beautifully savage motion, he ripped it through Zoth’s torso. The demon slumped forward, and Bael pulled his sword from the creature. Blood and gore pooled in the dirt.

  Zoth mutely opened his mouth to scream, but in a swirl of shadows, Bael was standing over him. His silver sword flashed in the starlight, and he slammed the blade through Zoth’s neck.

  Ursula’s blood ran cold. The whole fight had taken maybe two seconds. Bael displayed a level of skill she wouldn’t be able to match if she practiced for a thousand years.

  Her knees began to shake. She could only hope her own death would be just as quick.

  For a few pregnant moments, the crowd fell completely silent. Then, a chorus of boos filled the air, and a team of oneiroi ran out to clear the body. Zoth’s blood left a thick streak of crimson across the crater floor.

  The crowd was not happy. They’d wanted a duel. This had been an execution.

  Hotghar approached at the front of his stage. “That was—” He paused to think. “Very efficient.”

  Bael nodded silently, his face perfectly still. For just a moment, his icy glaze flicked to her as he took his place at the end of the line.

  Definitely a sociopath. Ursula reached into her pocket, her fingers coiling around the silver ring. She rolled it between her fingers. What would he do to me if he learned I’d crept into his quarters?

  Hothgar banged his gong again, silencing the crowd.

  Of course, no one had bothered to tell them the order of duels, so she had no idea when she’d have to fight Bernajoux. Nervously, she glanced down the line at him. Something about the smug grin he wore infuriated her.

  Hothgar’s booming voice summoned Valac of Phragol Mocaden and Inth of Alboth to the field of blood. Inth stepped forward, wearing a full suit of armor and carrying a long pole arm. Valac—a muscular demon whose skin had a bluish hue—stood across from him, gripping a battle axe.

  The crowd fell silent as the two demons faced each other. Slowly, Inth wove the end of his spear in the air, and a magical charge crackled from the point. Valac growled, a deep sound that seemed to rumble over the dirt.

  Deep in her pocket, Ursula rolled the silver ring in the palm of her hand. Even though both men were large, the match was clearly unbalanced—a knight in armor versus an unprotected barbarian. Her fingers tightened around the ring.

  A magical charge erupted from the pole arm with a loud crack. Just as the bolt of magic was ready to strike Valac, he twisted sideways, dodging the attack.

  Snarling, Inth began recharging the pole arm by swinging it in the air. But before he could strike again, Valac closed the gap between them, stepping safely past the tip of the pole arm. He slammed his axe through the pike, hacking off the tip. The crowd roared.

  Inth had just been thoroughly emasculated.

  Inth’s armor creaked as he drew a sword from its sheath. But Valac slammed his axe into Inth’s shoulder, denting the metal. Inth bellowed in pain, but his armor had saved him from losing his arm.

  Inth lifted his sword to swing, but his armor slowed him and he was unable to land a blow. Valac’s ax slammed against his armor again and again. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

  Inth spun, trying to keep Valac in sight, but he seemed unstable on his feet. Now, Ursula understood the strategy. Less armor meant greater agility.

  Just as she thought all was lost for poor Inth, he whirled in a one-eighty. He slammed his metal-encased fist into Valac’s head. The crack of skull reverberated across the crater.

  How did he manage a blow like that?

  A burst of cold air struck Ursula’s face. Ah. He used shadow magic.

  Valac fell to his knees, blood pouring between his fingers. Inth raised his sword and Ursula closed her eyes.

  Bile rose in her throat. I can’t say I was ever overcome by the desire to watch someone’s head split open. By the full-throated roar of the crowd, they did not share her sentiment.

  When she opened her eyes again, she stared at Valac’s limp, blue body on the dirt. The sword had cleaved through his skull.

  The field of blood was aptly named.

  Hothgar’s announced, “Well fought, Inth.”

  The knight pulled off his helm. Sweat slicked his platinum hair, and blood oozed from the joints of his armor.

  “Thank you,” he said gruffly. Limping slightly, he returned to his spot at the end of the line.

  Ursula’s stomach dropped as she stared at Hothgar. The Sword of Nyxobas seemed to stare right at her, his eyes dark as onyx. And above him, Nyxobas’s statue stared into the void, eyes gleaming like cold starlight.

  Any moment now, it will be my turn.

  Hothgar slammed his mallet into his gong. “And now, a fight that should prove extremely satisfying for us all.” The wind toyed with his silver cape. “Bernajoux the Unvanquished and Ursula the Whore. Can you please step into the field of blood?”

  The crowd’s screams pierced her to the bone.

  Instead of a suit of armor, Bernajoux wore a velvet doublet. He neither looked like a medieval knight, nor an unhinged barbarian giant. He’d slicked back his dark hair, and straightened his thin mustache into a perfect line. He carried a narrow sword at his hip.

  Ursula’s body hummed with raw nerves. He didn’t look like much of a match, but Bael had described him as a sadist. She took her spot, about six feet from him.

  As the sound of her heart pounded in her ears, the gong reverberated through the crater.

  Bernajoux drew his blade—a rapier. The thing looked flimsy—a long piece of narrow steel, no thicker than a ruler.

  Ursula pulled her katana from its sheath, feeling its comforting weight in her hand.

  Turning his body sideways, he pointed the blade at her. He arched an eyebrow. “Are you ready?”

  “Of course.”

  Bernajoux’s licked his lips. The sight of his long, pointed tongue distracted her.

  Bernajoux took the opportunity to strike, springing forward like a venomous serpent. Reflexively, Ursula parried, her sword clanking against his.

  “Very nice,” said Bernajoux. “I see you’ve trained in the Shinduro technique.”

  So that’s what it’s called. Instead of responding, Ursula kept her full attention on his blade. It glided through the air in a slow serpentine motion, interrupted by an occasional twitch that made her heart jump.

  “But have you trained in the style of Calvacabos of Bologna?” he hissed.

  She had no idea what he was talking about. But it didn’t matter. He was already lunging again. Pain ripped through her thigh as his blade pierced her muscle. She grunted as he ripped the blade out again.

  “Did you like that?” asked Bernajoux. “Did you like feeling the tip inside you? Do you want it a bit deeper?”

  Bile rose in her throat. What the fuck?

  Bernajoux darted back, the bloodied tip of his sword dancing before her eyes. He’s toying with me. Her leg screamed with pain.

  Bernajoux attacked again, and she just barely parried it.

  “Do you want some more?” he asked. “If only I could take my time with you. Really get to know your body with my blade.”

  The tip of his sword twitched, and she jumped back. The demon laughed, his tongue flicking between elongated canines.

  He pressed in on her, his blade extended. She faltered, stumbling back.

  One thing was becoming clearer—her katana was a slashing weapon. It didn’t have the reach or precision of his rapier. If she fought on his terms, she’d loose.

  The pointed tip of Bernajoux’s sword glinted in the pearly light. Still, the sides of the blade were dull.

  Adrenaline raced through her body, lighting her muscles on fire. I need to get out of his reach. She needed to shadow run. Maybe she could get close enough to slash him with her katana, while avoiding the rapier.

  She focused on a spot near him, letting the shadows gather within her. Riding on the wind, she raced forward—right into the tip of the rapier.
>
  It felt like a punch to her stomach, but when she looked down, she saw the blade had pierced clean through her abdomen. Horror ripped her mind apart.

  Bernajoux licked his lips. “Does that fill you up nicely? Want a bit more?”

  Pain screamed through her gut, stealing her breath. She tried to breathe. I haven’t even managed to attack. This was a massacre.

  She gripped her katana tighter, swinging for Bernajoux. She struck him hard in the side, just below his ribs. He screamed, losing the grip on his sword. He staggered back.

  His sword still impaled her stomach, and Bernajoux was muttering in Angelic, trying to staunch the blood flow from his side.

  She had to attack while he was still weakened. But first, she needed to get the godforsaken blade out of her gut.

  Dropping her katana, she gripped the rapier in two hands, piercing her fingers. Gritting her teeth, she pulled the hilt away from her. Pain splintered through her.

  With tears streaming from her eyes, she tugged on it again. With a final, agonized scream, she ripped it free. Just as Bernajoux finished the final words of the healing spell, she flung the sword away. It arced into the air in a whirl of blood and metal.

  Too bad he doesn’t have a weapon.

  “My blade!” Bernajoux screamed.

  Hot blood poured from her stomach, but she kept her focus on him.

  “Do you like that?” she snarled. “Do you want me to take my time with you?”

  Bernajoux’s face twisted with rage, and he leapt for her. She jammed her katana up, piercing his throat. The attack speared his brainstem.

  Bernajoux the Unvanquished no longer lived up to his name.

  His body went limp, spasming as it fell to the ground. She pulled her sword from his neck.

  Agony rippled down her body, and she glanced down at the wound in her gut. Staring at the pumping blood, her vision began to darken. The crowd’s frantic cheers sounded a million miles away.

  A chill seeped into her bones, and it wasn’t shadow magic.

  She fell back against the cold dirt, staring at the bright blue and green of the Earth. In the next moment, Bael’s face appeared, eclipsing the Earth. He lifted her in his arms, and she could smell the scent of sandalwood.