The Cities

by K. A Knight

  The Cities (Their Champion Book Three)

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to places, events or real people are entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 K.A. Knight, all rights reserved: Written by K.A. Knight

  Edited By Jess from Elemental Editing and Proofreading

  Formatted by Kaila Duff of Duffette Literary Services

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also By K.A Knight

  To my readers, as always this series is for you. You drive me to write it, to try and do Worth’s story justice, I hope I did.

  The Wasteland

  “Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage.”

  – Lao Tzu

  Bloodbath

  Blood splatters across my face, dripping into my parted mouth, and I quickly spit it onto the dying man, not wanting any part of him in me. He groans loudly, the sword protruding from his back as his hands scramble to get a grip on the stone floor of the throne room before he attempts to crawl away. I look over at Dray next to me with an arched eyebrow to see him grinning madly, watching the man.

  “How far do you think he will get?” I ask calmly, glancing back at the man who is making painfully slow progress as he drags his limp body over the floor. I scoff when I notice he’s heading toward the door to the throne room. Really? Does he think he will get away? What a fucking idiot.

  “I say a quarter of the way before you get bored and kill him,” Dray replies with a shrug, grinning at me as he strokes his blades across his chest, those ice-blue eyes heating as he watches me.

  “I say halfway before you kill him so you can fuck me,” I retort, with a smile curving my lips.

  “What’s the winner get, soulmate?” he purrs, his eyes heating as they flicker over my body.

  “A king or a queen.” I grin and he laughs, the sound loud in the stone room.

  All of the gathered Berserkers and Seekers are now leaning against the walls or filling the tables, enjoying the show. Bloodthirsty lot, they are… I guess I am too. Ivar’s body is still to the side of the throne, a reminder of what happens to those who hurt me and mine.

  A slice of panic cuts through me at the thought of what The Cities are doing to my men right now, but I push it away. I’m a queen now and I can’t afford to be weak. Besides, they have survived there before, so they can survive there again. I know it. At least until I get them free—and I fucking will—and kill anyone who dared hurt them. But first, I have some cleaning up to do. We are heading for war, I can feel it in the air. A line has been drawn in the sand and I need to make sure I can trust the men on either side of me. Some of these Berserkers helped and enjoyed torturing, raping, and killing people. They will die for their past crimes, here and now. I won’t give them a chance to betray me or stab me in the back. No fucking way.

  I look back down at the man, who hasn’t made much progress towards the door, seeing the trail of blood behind him.

  Sands below, he is taking a long time. Can’t he just die already?

  He’s a tough fucker, I’ll give him that. He sort of looks like a tortoise… with a sword protruding from its back.

  He had tried to run at me, thinking he could do what? I don’t fucking know, but I swatted him away like a fly and then stabbed him. The gathered warriors know who I am, know what I can do, and they don’t bother to help. For fuck’s sake, I just killed Ivar the Destroyer while he sat with his limp dick on the throne. This simple man thought he could take me? What an idiot.

  “Fuck this,” I grumble, already bored and filled with an urgency to race to The Cities, even though I can’t.

  As I cover the short distance between us, I hear him crying. With no fanfare, I place my booted foot on the sword and press down until he’s skewered to the floor. He stops moving and blood pools around him.

  “Guess I get a queen, soulmate,” Dray calls, and I flip him off without looking.

  “Anybody else want to challenge me?” I shout, my voice echoing around the room. I really hope someone does, I could use a way to burn some of this worry and energy off, if not in a fight then at least I can take it out on Dray. The sick bastard would love it.

  “You’re no queen, ya a fuckin’ slave whore!” a rumbling voice yells, as a mountain of a man steps forward. Instantly, all the men surrounding him step away, creating an empty gap around him like they don’t want to be associated with him. Smart move.

  “You’re big.” I nod, and he starts to grin, his wide, sweaty, meaty face breaking into a crooked, yellow-toothed smile until my next words stop him. “I’ve fought and fucked bigger.” I chuckle and laughter echoes from the men gathered around the room.

  With a roar he charges at me, and I watch him move, analysing for weak spots. He’s big, a fucking solid hitter. One smack from him and I’ll be out cold, but he is slow, really fucking slow, so slow I have time to reach down, pull the sword out of the dead man, and sprint forward. He falters for a moment before heading towards me, and at the last possible second, I drop to my knees, sliding through his legs and lifting the sword at the same time, gutting him.

  I roll when I’m through and flip to my feet to watch him as he stumbles, letting out a low whistle when he looks down at his guts spilling out onto the floor.

  “Fucking—” He doesn’t finish his sentence as he topples over, his head landing just before my feet. Looking up at the crowd, I see some grinning, some appearing terrified, and others appearing downright angry.

  “Cunt!” someone calls, and I whip around but Dray is already in motion.

  He moves like silk to the wall where everyone is backing away from the man who must have shouted. As the enraged Seeker King faces him, the man looks like he’s going to piss his pants…oh wait, he just did. In one smooth move, Dray slides around the man and slits his throat, letting him fall to the floor as blood splatters across his chest. This man wears blood the same way others would wear jewellery. My crazy ass soulmate.

  “Does anyone else want to insult my queen?” he growls menacingly, stepping out with a blade in each hand and narrowing his eyes on the gathered crowd. “If I hear one fucking whisper, I will skin you alive and make a coat for her!” he yells.

  No one speaks up, in fact, I think a few people physically can’t because they’re so fucking scared. Dray does make an intimidating sight standing there covered in blood, blades in each hand, and his face carved in cold fury. Me? I’m turned the fuck on.

  I never said I wasn't crazy…

  Dray nods with a smirk and slides back over to me. Tilting my face up with his blade, he presses the cold, bloody tip of his sword against my chin. “I was promised a queen, unless you want me to get on my knees right here and taste you, I suggest you finish up here quickly.”

  I resist for a moment, but I know he will do as he says, he doesn’t give a fuck. Crazy bastard would probably kill anyone who was unlucky enough not to escape in time and see it happen.

  “Where are the slaves?” I ask, needing to
free them before Dray has his wicked way with me.

  A throat clears, and I look away from Dray and focus on a familiar man—it’s the rebel guard I’d met in the hallway. He drops to his knees instantly, tilting his head down as I step closer to him. “Don’t kneel for me. I lived my life on my knees, and I won’t let anyone else do the same,” I say softly. I hear the men closest to us suck in a shocked breath, but the rebel at my feet simply stands with a knowing smile.

  “My name is Roan, My Queen.”

  “The slaves?” I repeat, growing bored.

  “He killed them,” he growls.

  My body turns ice-cold and I step closer, fury racing through my body. “What did you say?” I query quietly, deadly.

  “Ivar had them all killed last night… He was going to take you to the room and show them all off. I’m sorry, My Queen,” he whispers, with fear in his eyes. We are on the same side, but he stood there and did nothing as innocents were slaughtered? Obviously reading the question in my eyes, he hurries to explain, “None of the rebels were in the castle, we were out meeting with others to figure out a way to get you free. When we got back we found out—” He stops, swallowing hard, sweat breaking out across his brow.

  I step back and flicker a look over the uneasy crowd. “Who?” I call loudly, and they share looks.

  “Who?” someone repeats in confusion.

  “Who killed the slaves? I want them before me…now!” I scream, gripping my sword in my hand as I prowl down the lengths. “Who killed the innocents? Who?” My fury echoes around the walls.

  “We were ordered to,” someone fires back.

  “So? You could have said no. You could have not done it. The guards who followed those orders made a choice to. They killed women and children on a mad man's whim just to keep themselves alive,” I growl.

  “She’s right,” a big man calls. “We neva hurt tha kiddies or tha women, we didnee stop it, but we never did it by our hands, Ma Queen. I kna a few of them,” he offers hesitantly, treading forward.

  “Bring them to me,” I order, before stepping back. I feel Dray behind me, his warmth centering me as guilt and hate roll through me.

  I know Ivar killed the slaves to get a reaction out of me. Their blood is on my hands. Just another of Ivar’s games. Even when he’s dead, he still manages to deal a crippling blow.

  “What are you going to do, soulmate?” Dray rumbles.

  “Kill anyone who touched the slaves. Then, I will find that room and lay them to rest. I need to see their faces. They died because of me, because of Ivar’s game. I need to do this. I can’t change what happened, but I will not fucking let their deaths go unavenged,” I vow.

  “That’s my girl,” he whispers.

  Final Game

  “Ma Queen,” the big man calls, and I focus back on him to see him dragging two men kicking and fighting over to me. He drops them on the floor at my feet, and I look at the big man with an arched eyebrow. He is huge. He reminds me of those giants my dad used to tell me about in stories—all muscle and so massive, I have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze.

  “Can anyone confirm these men killed the slaves?” I yell, and three men step forward, all with grim expressions.

  “Yes,” one says.

  “I heard Ivar give them the order,” the other replies, and when I look at the third, I can see the pain in his eyes.

  “I saw them,” he offers softly. “I couldn’t—” He looks away, swallowing hard before steeling himself and facing me once again. “I saw them. I was ordered to watch.”

  “Why?” I find myself asking.

  His eyes spit fire, and they’re filled with so much pain and hate. “One of them…I loved her,” he rasps, his lips thinning as he bites on them.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper. He nods and steps back, staring at the men at my feet.

  “Were there any others?” I question him.

  “No, just those two,” he confirms.

  Crouching down to level of the men who are on their knees in front of me, I grin. The one on the left spits at me and it hits my cheek. Keeping my eyes on him, I reach up and wipe it away. “For that, you will not die quickly.” He just glares at me.

  “Now, do you admit you killed the slaves?” I inquire almost pleasantly. My body is itching to kill them, calling for their blood, to make them pay.

  I look between them. The one on the left who spat on me is a skinny man, almost too skinny, but it’s clear he was born like that. He has long, ratty hair, which I’m pretty sure has never seen water or a brush, and his nose is crooked from being broken one too many times. His eyes are dirt brown and dead looking.

  The man on the right almost appears normal, classically handsome even. He has bright blue eyes, filled with warmth and life, pink plush lips, and high cheekbones. That beauty alone makes me falter. I never trust anyone that beautiful. He doesn’t even have a mark or scar on him. If he has made it through this life with no scars, he’s a fucking monster. It tells me he will do whatever it takes to stay alive, to protect himself above all others. He has no allegiances and he can’t be trusted. Just by looking at him, his eyes, his body language… I can tell he enjoyed torturing and killing the slaves. And I know he’d do it again. I also know, as his mouth opens, he’s going to spout nothing but charming lies.

  “Of course not! He must have me mixed up, My Queen. I know it’s hard to believe that they confused me with someone else, seeing how I am so much better looking than all these barbarians. But, then again, they aren’t the smartest.” He winks at me, a smirk curling up at his lips like he thinks he has me. Oh, how very wrong he is. I would prefer a monster with horns and blood covering him, because at least I’d know where I stand. This…this man is nothing but a very good liar.

  “You forget one thing,” I whisper seductively, leaning closer to him, and I see his eyes flare in satisfaction.

  “What’s that, My Queen?” he purrs.

  “I’m the fucking barbarian queen,” I murmur in a velvety voice, before I snap his head to the side and bite down on his flesh. Ripping my mouth away, I take a hunk of skin with me, hearing a ‘pop’ as I go. Blood fills my mouth, and I spit his skin and gore onto the floor in front of him as he screams and falls back, clutching his bleeding neck and looking at me in pale horror. All that charm falls away and shows me the frightened little boy he’d kept buried deep. He is used to his charm working…but he can’t fool this monster.

  “You-you fucking bitch!” he screams, as blood drips steadily down his throat.

  I grin then, knowing my chin and teeth are coated in his blood, and I turn my gaze to the other man who holds it defiantly.

  “You don’t scare me, little girl. I lived with Ivar for years. I have seen things that would scare you shitless,” he snaps.

  “Oh, I don’t doubt it. Ivar always was creative,” I murmur. “Do you admit to killing the slaves?” I ask again.

  “Yes,” he spits again. “I had my fun first too. Those fucking bitches screamed until the end, thinking someone would save them.” He laughs then and I nod, before standing up. I look at the man from before, the one who was made to watch his love be tortured and killed.

  “Take your pick.” I gesture at the men and his eyes go wide before filling with satisfaction and bloodlust.

  “Him.” He nods at the sobbing man still holding his neck. “He killed her.”

  “He’s yours.”

  The man still bleeding on the floor freezes at that, and glances back at the encroaching guard. All that sadness for his lost love has been wiped away and in its place is hate. He looks every bit the Berserker warrior as he prowls to the injured man on the floor.

  “Stand up, I won’t kill a man on his knees, not even a worm like you,” he growls.

  The other man, still on his knees, starts laughing, so I whip out my fist, knocking him sideways to the floor. He groans as he cups his cheek, and I wave my hand at the avenging guard to proceed. The beautiful man, the worm, gets to his feet, still clutch
ing his bleeding neck, and faces the Berserker.

  “She loved it,” he gargles with a smirk.

  I don’t even know where the Berserker produced the blade from, but the next thing I know, there’s one sticking out of the worm’s chest and his mouth is opening and closing as blood bubbles there. The worm looks down at his chest in shock before slowly falling to his knees, his eyes unfocused and draining of life until he tips sideways and sprawls across the stone floor. We all watch him die. Not a single man steps forward to try and stop us. They knew what would happen. You don’t hurt a Berserker, you kill them or they will only come back stronger than before, fighting through the pain and fire until they get their revenge. They are warriors, fighters, and I am honoured to be one of them right now.

  Turning to the other man, I grab his shoulder and haul him to his feet, making him meet my gaze. I will use him to send a message—anyone who followed Ivar or who wants to live the way Ivar did will die by my hand. There’s been enough blood and suffering, it’s time we become the clan we’re meant to be.

  “Anyone wanting to kill, rape, or torture better leave now, because I will find you. That is not the way this clan will be. We are warriors, we are bred to fight, we survived the scorch and this dead world, and we will be reborn in the flames once again. Mark my words, Berserkers, break my rules and face my blade,” I yell, before I cut the man's throat—not a nice way to die. I don’t cut too deep, that would be too quick, no, he will suffer. I might not be able to torture people like Ivar did, but I won’t let this man’s death be quick, not for his crimes.